


Against Glass

by AllThatMatters



Series: Against Glass [1]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Criminals, Angst, Crimes & Criminals, Dancing, Drama, Drugs, Escort Service, Eventual Romance, Family, Family Drama, Fluff, Gay, Gritty, Gun Violence, M/M, Novella, Organized Crime, Sex, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Snuff, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:07:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 292,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24629026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllThatMatters/pseuds/AllThatMatters
Summary: The Milkovich family is the top crime family in Chicago - they have money, power, and respect; but when a Friday night business run turns into something unexpected for Mickey Milkovich, he'll find himself having to choose between the danger he knows, and the life he could maybe have without it.Ian Gallagher is a dancer, an escort, and a simple product of the South Side. When a business trade-off places him in the cross-hairs of the Milkovich family, he'll find himself thriving in a life he wants to leave behind, with a man so inextricably tied to said life, he doesn't know if they even stand a chance.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: Against Glass [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2149725
Comments: 521
Kudos: 606





	1. Night

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you ahead of time to anyone who takes a few minutes to read this. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoy writing it. I have a very novel/novella style of writing, so I try to take you as deep into the story as possible. If you have Twitter, feel free to follow me @ WhatsaMattavich - where I post excerpts and updates weekly!  
> This story is written from the perspectives of both Ian, and Mickey. It will be full of crime, some violence, sex, swearing, soft moments, tough moments, and all the things that make Gallavich, Gallavich. I also have no idea how many chapters there will be, but I am hoping around ten, maybe more!

It was a rainy night in downtown Chicago. Mickey Milkovich leaned against the smooth, black stone façade of SS - one of his father’s four local nightclubs – the handle of his Glock digging into his back where it was tucked into his belt. The overhang above him was filled with buzzing white lights that shook a little as the bass reverberated out from the music inside.

It all annoyed the shit outta him.

Mickey pulled a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket as he waited and slid one between his lips, shielding the lighter’s flame with his hand as a cool wind brushed passed him, followed by a handful of patrons exiting the club. Fog was gathering around the top of Willis Tower, and it glowed dimly above the downtown lights. Mickey exhaled, watching his smoke spiral upwards. Somewhere in an office upstairs, his father was having a meeting with Shea Sirko, an Irish-Ukrainian kingpin whose notoriety in Chicago was second only to Mickey’s own father. 

“Mr. Milkovich,” a man said suddenly, nodding at Mickey as he walked passed him towards the entrance. Mickey recognized him as Sirko’s driver, and he lifted his head in that quick, jerk-y way people do in acknowledgement. He fucking hated being called that – thought it was pretentious as fuck – but he loved that his family had earned that level of respect.

Just then the doors opened and his father stepped out, his grey suit still immaculately smooth. As always, Iggy was on his left. 

“Pops,” Mickey said, crushing his cigarette out on the wall before tossing it into the alley. 

“Mickey, you remember Shea?” His father gestured to the tall, geriatric viagroid that sauntered slowly through the door behind him, a large Ukrainian on either side.

As if he could forget.

“Of course.” Mickey forced a half-smile as he shook the man’s hand. “Mr. Sirko.” Even if it wasn’t in ways Mickey wholly approved of, the man had also earned that title of respect.

“Mr. Sirko has a package for you to pick up”, his father stated, stepping out of the way as Sirko’s driver reappeared, two female escorts that Mickey recognized from the club trailing behind him. “We did a bit of a trade, you could say.” 

They watched the two women step up into the black SUV, the second one ensuring her fur coat was tucked out of the way as she glanced flirtatiously at Mickey, sliding it up slightly to expose her long, bare leg before the driver closed the door behind them. 

_Nice try sweetheart_ , he thought, and looked away.

The trading of goods wasn’t uncommon in the Crime business – sometimes, someone needed product, and most times, the Milkoviches could supply it. Whether that product was drugs, guns, or people, was entirely of no consequence. 

“Gunna snow tonight?” Mickey asked, looking towards the sky as if actually expecting white flakes to fall. Snow of course meant drugs, but in public, you never talked straight business.

“Not tonight,” his father replied, slipping on his jacket.

“You’re going to meet a friend of mine,” Sirko put in, his voice hoarse and lilted with an accent. _Friend_ obviously meant a person – a worker – most likely an escort. Mickey had expected drugs or money; those were his most frequent pick-ups.

Their father’s black car appeared then from the alley and pulled slowly up to the curb, the white lights of the overhang reflecting brilliantly in the black sheen of the paint. Iggy reached out and opened the back door.

 _Suck up_.

“Until next time,” Sirko said. Terry Milkovich nodded silently, shaking the man’s hand before he climbed into the back of his SUV, making eyes at the women who waited inside. Mickey crinkled his nose at this, wondering how these women handled night after night of gargling old man balls.

Once Sirko had pulled away, their father turned to Iggy, said, “Give him the details,” and jabbed a fat, tattooed finger in Mickey’s general direction before getting into the back of his own car and shutting the door. They watched him leave, and once he was gone, Iggy sighed loudly, lighting his own cigarette.

“You’ll like this pick-up,” Iggy stated, smiling widely and spitting an errant piece of tobacco off his tongue. 

“Yea? Why the fuck’s that?” Mickey rubbed absently at his temple.

“You gotta go to Boy’s Town...” 

Mickey shot his brother a glance, and felt the heat rise slightly in his face; luckily it was cold enough outside that Mickey was sure his cheeks had already been red for awhile.

Iggy knew he was gay of course; the whole family did – except for Pops. The knowing of this information by so many siblings loyal to their father would probably worry most people in a similar position – their father being “old school” and all – but Mickey knew neither his sister nor his brothers would betray his trust to Terry Milkovich, because they were all more loyal to each other than anything – or anyone – else.

“The Fairy Tale?” Mickey asked suddenly, remembering the name of Shea Sirko’s exclusively gay club in Boy’s Town. 

“Yup,” Iggy threw his cigarette into the street. “Two girls for one fairy.”

 _Two for one special_ , Mickey thought. _Trading goods indeed_.

The cold was starting to nip the end of his nose as he sniffed once, loudly. He rubbed his hands together to warm them, and pulled the collar of his jacket up higher.

“He have a name?” Mickey hoped it was something stupid – the fake names always were.

“Goes by Curtis.” Iggy shoved a folded piece of paper at his brother before strolling off in the opposite direction. He called back, “No sampling the goods, remember!?” as if that were a thought Mickey would even consider.

Mickey flashed him the finger and headed down the alley.

Mickey had a matte black Audi R8 – the only thing his dad had ever given him besides the occasional black eye and hard lesson. It was also the only thing that was his – besides family – that he was proud of.

Once inside, he sat for a moment, letting the engine idle as the interior heated. Mickey pulled out the piece of paper and unfolded it. Christ, his dad’s writing was shitty:

_Curtis._

_Have a place organized with Margo M. @_

_the Skinner Park place, West Loop._

“Curtis,” he mumbled to himself. It _was_ stupid.

Mickey crumpled the paper up and shoved it unceremoniously back into his pocket, removing the gun from his waistband and pushing it under the seat before putting the car in drive and pulling out onto the wet streets of Chicago. He pointed her west, taking the corners unnecessarily fast, feeling the tires hug the curb as he headed for the expressway. This was something he knew how to do and do well - drive.

He opened up on the straight-aways, finding pleasure in the glances from pedestrians and fellow drivers who looked at his tinted windows, unable to truly see him; something about that gave him comfort.

Gliding over the south branch of the Chicago River, he headed into Chinatown, heading towards home - the South Side. 

As he steered, one hand on the wheel, he let his mind wander; it was comforting how much he could think when he drove. He was almost – _almost_ – nervous; that strange tightening in his stomach making itself known. It was an uneasy feeling that Mickey didn’t like, because it had nothing to do with business; business for him was easy, it always had been. Crime was what he was good at. But men…men were a different story.

It wasn’t the first time he’d picked up a male escort of course – nor did he think it would be the last – but he always felt a little exposed in such close quarters with someone like himself.

 _Assuming he’s even gay_ , Mickey thought, knowing full well that that wasn’t always the case.

Most of the pick-ups he’d done in the past were for drugs, money, guns, or women, and those were all things he didn’t worry much about; three of them he had in excess, and when it came to the latter in the list, he knew he could handle them – their almost-desperate advances, their touching, their smiles – because it was never something he was going to want; it was for that reason that he didn’t feel like he had to put on a show for the them, or be more than what he actually was. But twice before he had picked up male escorts for the club, and although both times he found they were slightly older than what he _would_ want, it didn’t change the fact that he was remarkably different in their presence. Still, Mickey worried that one day, the guy that _did_ get into his car would be someone whose touches he couldn’t say no to, whose smiles would get to him in a way he couldn’t control, and Mickey didn’t much like things he couldn’t control.

However, new faces were good business; good business meant knowing the clientele; and knowing the clientele was his father’s specialty. No, Terry Milkovich knew that not every shady, high-flying businessman that came his way would want the company of Russian women; some would want men, and that was the way of the world. That was good business.

Trade was also good business; it ensured ties remained strong while cutting corners around the import and pricing of new supply; because if you wanted quality, you paid for it.

So Mickey tried hard to focus on the road, fully expecting the same business-as-usual kind of night as he pushed forward.

Less than twenty minutes later he was at The Fairy Tale, pulling his car up front without a second thought – maybe it was because this was a place he didn’t mind being noticed, or maybe because he just fucking felt like it; either way, he parked, pocketed his key fob, and headed inside.

Despite it being almost 2am, the place was still packed. Mickey felt his teeth rattle as the music thumped loudly, remixed club music sending vibrations that bounced around his chest. A security guard at the door stood, and was about to ask for Mickey’s ID when he squinted against the coloured flashing lights, clearly recognizing last minute that it was a Milkovich.

“You here for Curtis?” he yelled over the music, leaning in close. His breath was hot in Mickey’s ear, and for a second he almost liked it. 

“Yea!” he barked back, nodding. The bouncer gave a small flick of his fingers in a _follow me_ gesture, and pushed his way through the crowd towards the back.

Men were everywhere - some young and hot, some old and not; some dancing on platforms, some watching from leather couches. A few of the men looked at Mickey as he walked by, whispering to each other and pointing in their own shady ways. Mickey wondered if it was because they recognized him, or because they found him appealing; either way, it made him feel fucking good.

He glanced up at a dancer – a guy no more than twenty – standing on top of one of the raised platforms; he had on small, gold underwear that hugged an impossibly massive bulge. Mickey raised a curious eyebrow, chewed on his lip, and almost felt a small twitch of something somewhere within him before quickly pinching the bridge of his nose as distraction and turning away. 

They entered a back room, and Mickey was relieved to be out of people’s sight. The room was quite obviously where they kept the extra booze, as cases of beer and bottles of liquor lined the walls. A dude wearing a small blue vest with nothing underneath was carrying cases back and forth, chatting aimlessly to another guy who was sitting away from Mickey on a low stool, the hood of his sweater pulled up. Mickey grabbed another cigarette, needing a brief respite from the closeness of men, and lit it, not much caring for the _No Smoking_ signs. 

“You Curtis?” he asked Vest Boy, coming up to stand idly beside the stool. Vest Boy was around the same age as the others he’d picked up in the past, and had similar dark hair and features, so of course, Mickey assumed.

“That’d be me,” Stool Boy said suddenly, taking Mickey somewhat by surprise. He looked down at the guy who spoke, and could barely make out a pale face sticking out from under the dark hood. Mickey took a long drag on his cigarette.

“Well,” he huffed, smoke escaping out into the room. “I’m your ride.”

Curtis stood, causing Mickey to take an involuntary step back; he was taller than he had seemed sitting down so low - Mickey barely cleared his shoulders. Curtis leaned over and hugged Vest Boy quickly, telling him - rather insincerely, Mickey thought - that he’d see him again soon. Mickey took the brief opportunity to be selfish, and checked out his late-night pick-up; besides his black hoodie, he had on dark blue jeans, and bright red high-tops. Mickey assumed by the clothes that this guy was actually fairly young, and not that he could really tell, but something about his body made Mickey think that maybe he was also kinda hot.

Curtis turned then, grabbing a backpack up from off the floor, causing Mickey to glance away quickly and head towards the swinging door. He held it open, his cigarette dangling aimlessly from between his lips as he motioned - with only a small hint of annoyance as Curtis stood there waiting - for Curtis to go through. 

“Oh shit, thank you!” Curtis spat, obviously embarrassed, and squeezed past, his unusually large backpack nearly taking Mickey’s eye out. 

“Jeeesus,” Mickey hissed, irritated, and was about to follow him outside when he remembered something. “Hey Curtis!” he yelled suddenly, stopping abruptly beside the young dancer with the huge cock. Curtis stopped, glancing backwards before coming up to where Mickey stood. 

“What?” He had a bubbliness that Mickey found rather amusing.

“This guy’s dick real?” he asked bluntly, and pointed a finger directly at the dancing guy’s bulge. Despite the hood, Mickey could see Curtis’s wide smile as he laughed. Big Dick glanced down at them, and Mickey wiggled his fingers in an overly-dramatic, cocky little wave.

“Definitely not,” Curtis yelled back, leaning in a little. “Tube sock!”

Mickey jutted his bottom lip out, making a face that feigned amazement before taking a long drag of his cigarette. “Tube sock,” he repeated, holding in the smoke, and headed back towards the entrance.

Outside the air was even cooler than it had been, though it had stopped raining. Mickey once again tucked his head inside his collar and rubbed his hands together harshly. He glanced at the sky, wondering if it was in fact actually going to snow, but the sky was clear besides the low-hanging fog.

“Holy shit,” Curtis exclaimed suddenly, causing Mickey to glance up as he reached the driver’s side door. “Is this your car!?”

Mickey half-grinned at Curtis’s casualness, his ego growing just a touch as he tossed the butt of his cigarette into the street. Sometimes he liked having nice things; sometimes he didn’t.

“Yeah” he admitted, as if he didn’t really care, and unlocked the car, allowing them both to slide in. Despite his height and the lowness of the Audi, Curtis fit in like a glove.

Mickey clicked on the interior light, opened the glove box, and proceeded to shove in his cigarettes and cell phone - checking it quickly to ensure no messages had come in. When he glanced back up, he realized his passenger had pushed back his hood.

“Jesus,” Mickey exclaimed with extra sarcasm, leaning back against his door, one hand up on the wheel.

Curtis glanced at him, smiled a little, and again asked, “What?” 

“You’re a fire-crotch,” Mickey blurted, staring blankly at his passenger’s hair. It wasn’t red really, more of an orange - the colour of the end of his cigarettes when he breathed them in. It was shorter on the sides, but long enough on the top that it could be slicked back, as it was now.

Curtis made a snorting sound and looked out the windshield.

“Will that be a problem for Mr. Milkovich?” he asked curtly. “Does he prefer brunettes?”

Mickey bit the inside of his lip to keep from smiling; he enjoyed the way Curtis said his father’s name as if his father were the Queen of England, and also as if he had no clue that Mr. Milkovich was his father at all.

Curtis glanced back at him suddenly, and their eyes met, and it was the first time Mickey really got to look at him. His face was pale, and judging by his hands, so was the rest of him, like a fucking porcelain doll; there was a dusting of freckles on his face that became more visible at the base of his neck and on his hands; his jaw was prominent, square; his eyes were a blue-green; his ears were slightly too high; his lips were a shade of pink that didn’t really make sense; and above those lips was a deep, carved-out dent that Mickey stared at just a little too long. He was weird lookin’, Mickey thought, but in the way those marble statues in museums are weird lookin’ - like they aren’t really weird at all, just too perfect to have been carved from life.

“You’re not _for_ Mr. Milkovich,” Mickey said abruptly, pulling himself out of this unfounded reverie as he pressed the push start. The sudden sound of the engine brought him back to the present, and he gassed it, the low vibrations setting his teeth on edge. A small smile crossed his face at this comforting familiarity, and he chanced a glance at his passenger. Curtis was looking at him intently, his eyes slightly narrowed as a smile played on the edges of his lips, as if daring Mickey to show him what he was made of. 

Mickey didn’t need to be asked.

Throwing the car into gear, he pushed the pedal so hard to the floor that the tires squealed sharply, sending up a sudden cloud of burnt rubber as the back end of the car shifted sideways slightly before finally gripping the pavement, launching them off in the direction of downtown. Both of Mickey’s hands were on the wheel, and at least he was in complete control of _something_ as they reached 70mph in just under five seconds. Mickey glanced at the porcelain boy; the lights outside the passenger window were blurring past his face, throwing sudden colours across his white skin; his hands were casually in his lap, as if he were driving to church with his grandma on a Sunday. Mickey noticed however that the smile was slightly more prevalent – he was enjoying this; he was used to chaos. Something about that made Mickey look quickly back to the road.

He pulled back onto the expressway, slowing down by half as two cop cars came into view in the distance, their lights flashing brightly in the night.

“You’re a pretty decent driver,” Curtis observed casually, throwing a glance at Mickey. “What’s your name again?”

Mickey wasn’t sure why he said _again_ , or where he got off saying _pretty_ fucking _decent_.

“Mikhailo,” Mickey said, looking for any sign of recognition – he wasn’t sure Curtis even knew he was a Milkovich. “Everyone calls me Mickey.” Curtis nodded, glancing out the window as they passed the pigs, who had pulled someone over for doing probably half the speed they had been. 

“So are you just like the driver or something?” he asked then, leaning back on an angle in his seat so he was facing Mickey head on.

 _Nope_ , Mickey thought, _no fucking clue who I am_.

“Uh, you could say that, I guess” Mickey admitted, rubbing absently at his nose to keep from laughing; and he wasn’t lying – he did drive for the family, and occasionally for the business.

It was quiet for a few minutes, the only sound was that of the engine as it purred steadily, its vibrations rising and falling as Mickey either pumped the gas or the brake. He wondered absently if he was being too forward, or too open; maybe not open enough. Maybe he was being too stand-offish, but being stand-offish was kinda his thing. Mostly, he wondered if he was being too obvious. Maybe he should say something…

A car in the rearview caught his attention suddenly as it pulled uncomfortably close to his bumper. It was a black sedan, with overly-white headlights that made him squint at their reflection in the mirror. Mickey watched it for a minute, glancing back and forth between the road and the rearview, waiting to see if it would pass. When it didn’t, he leaned forward, pawing around under his seat for the Glock.

“You okay?” Curtis asked, seeing this, and leaned forward, too, obviously looking to see if Mickey had lost something under the seat. Finally, Mickey felt the muzzle, and he grabbed it, pulling the gun out and pushing off the safety. Mickey didn’t really notice if Curtis leaned away at the appearance of the gun or whether his face changed at all, he was too busy watching, working.

Abruptly, the sedan pulled out into the passing lane, and Mickey chambered a round with his hands hardly leaving the wheel.

“If I say get down, get down,” he said simply, matter-of-factly, and laid the gun across his lap in his right hand, aiming it towards his door. This was tactical – surgical, even – Mickey thought, and waited for his moment as the sedan pulled alongside them, bracing himself for a melee of bullets he wasn’t actually sure would come.

As the sedan’s front bumper reached the halfway point of the Audi, Mickey at once slammed the brakes, causing the sedan to continue past them at a rapid rate as they slowed to a snail’s pace. Luckily, at this time of night, there were no other cars on the expressway; so Mickey sat, and he watched.

The sedan drove on, continuing north until it disappeared from sight.

Curtis broke the silence first.

“Who was that?” he asked quietly, and Mickey could tell he was just the littlest bit nervous.

“Not sure. Maybe nobody,” Mickey replied, beginning to move the car forward again, his eyes scanning the horizon more than they had been. “Could be I’m just fuckin’ paranoid.”

It went quiet again, and it took a good ten minutes for the atmosphere in the car to dissipate.

“So where are we going?” Curtis inquired, trying – Mickey was sure – to regain his composure as he leaned his head in his hand and glanced at his driver. His eyes were growing somewhat dark – the white, freckled skin under his eyes turning to a soft purple – and Mickey could tell he was tired.

“Sirko didn’t tell you?” Mickey was somewhat surprised. Curtis shrugged.

“They said I was moving to a different nightclub, run by the Milkoviches. They said the gig was a bit more exclusive…” Curtis looked up into the rearview, and Mickey knew he was wondering if _exclusive_ was really the right word for it after the incident with the sedan. In this line of business, _exclusive_ also meant _dangerous_.

“You’ll still dance, escort” Mickey put in, trying to be somewhat professional and composed, for his passenger’s sake. “But you’ll be exposed to a much…bigger clientele.” Curtis furrowed his orange brows at this, considering. “Let’s just say,” Mickey continued, “that you’re moving up in the world.”

Despite trying to be lighthearted, Mickey suddenly didn’t want to look Curtis in the eye; he felt unclean somehow, like a liar, as if this porcelain boy’s life was now simply a pawn in his father’s game of chess. Mickey knew how that felt, because he was one, too. Yet, even though he had had a thousand close-calls, and had driven a hundred escorts, it had never really bothered him until this moment. 

Mickey risked a glance at his passenger, and was a little relieved to see him smiling.

“I bet the tips are gunna be fuckin’ _huge_!” Curtis joked, and laughed, his eyes closing just the littlest bit, causing the auburn lashes to come together slightly. It was as if this business didn’t bother him, despite the gun that still sat in Mickey’s lap, and Mickey felt inexplicably relieved.

Willis Tower came back into sight, the early-morning fog beginning to thicken as dawn slowly approached.

“Almost there, man” Mickey declared, slowing the car as they pulled gently into the city’s centre. Curtis leaned forward, glancing up out of the windshield at the buildings that rose up around them, glass windows casting light out into the night.

“Wow,” he whispered, as if he had never seen downtown Chicago at night before.

Mickey couldn’t be sure, but he thought that despite his fondness for chaos, this porcelain boy was also maybe just the littlest bit soft.

“We got you an apartment set up already,” Mickey said, trying to distract himself from noticing. “Tomorrow I’ll have some movers go get everything you want from your old place. We’ll take care of the lease and shit...” 

“Jesus,” Curtis scoffed, rubbing gently at the stubble of his jaw. “Am I like fuckin’ royalty now or what?”

“Definitely,” Mickey said absently, the word coming out unintentional and quiet. He felt himself blush a little and thought that he shouldn’t be such a pussy.

Curtis caught his eye then, the corner of his mouth pulling up just the smallest bit as he stared at him for what Mickey considered just a fraction too long.

 _Oh fuck off_ , he thought, and despite the short amount of time that had passed, he found all at once that there was something about Curtis he didn’t want to ignore. He couldn’t say for sure what it was about him, because he honestly didn’t know. He wondered if maybe it was their closeness in age; Curtis’s nonchalant attitude; their seemingly different personalities; the way he looked; or the fact that he was fairly certain that sometimes, Curtis was flirting with him, and that he didn’t altogether mind it.

If it were any other circumstance, he’d maybe – despite never actually having a boyfriend or whatever – let it play out; see if maybe one day, he could; but, as Iggy had reminded him, there was no sampling the goods, and technically – despite the archaic notion – Curtis was now the property of Terry Milkovich.

Mickey didn’t speak again until they pulled up to park in front of the apartment building in West Loop by Skinner Park, though his passenger had chatted idly to himself non-stop the rest of the way, pulling out his phone and making small comments here and there while taking sporadic photos of random buildings and murals. Mickey _did_ try to ignore him, but mostly he just listened, finding some sort of comfort in this newfound white noise.

“Hoooly shit,” Curtis exhaled, stepping out of the car and glancing up at the tall glass façade of his new home. 

“I told ya man, royalty…” Mickey shoved the Glock back into his waistband and motioned to Curtis’s bag. “I’ll get this.” He swung it over his shoulder, a little surprised by both the weight of it and this sudden fucking feeling of wanting to be kind.

“You sure?” Curtis cocked an eyebrow, smiling that soft half-smile that was starting to get on Mickey’s nerves.

“It’s just a fuckin’ bag, man,” he spat, quickly opening the lobby door. He walked over to the panel on the wall and buzzed the penthouse suite. Margo’s voice came sleepily through the speaker.

“Hello Mikhailo,” she said, without even inquiring. “It’s apartment seven-hundred, meet you there.” There was a quick silence before the door buzzed and Mickey pulled it open. 

“Welcome home, Fire-crotch,” he said, laughing to himself as the overhead fluorescents made Curtis’s hair glow. The porcelain boy gave him the finger – much to Mickey’s amusement – and glanced around absently. The lobby was all white marble and grey furniture, framed by colourful abstracts. It was a bit too institutional for Mickey’s taste, but fuck it, he didn’t have to live there.

Curtis reached out and hit the _up_ button by the elevator doors, sliding his hands in his pockets as they waited for it to descend.

“Reminds me a bit of a psych ward,” he said quietly, not looking at Mickey. Mickey thought that the way he said it was somewhat sad, and he also thought that maybe this boy said too much sometimes.

The elevator was fairly small; Mickey found that his sudden closeness to Curtis was a bit of a burden as they stepped inside – not because he didn’t like it, but because he did. That was new. He felt vulnerable as he listened to him breathe, like all that he was was suddenly exposed in that great, tiny space.

As if realizing this somehow, Curtis turned suddenly and leaned away from him; he stared up at the ceiling lights – hands still in his pockets – until they reached the seventh floor and the doors dinged open.

Mickey glanced down the hallway and saw Margo, leaning against a doorjamb in her robe. 

“Margo,” he nodded with a whisper. It was late. 

“About fucking time,” she hissed, placing the keys to the apartment rather forcefully into his hand. Glancing up at Curtis, she raised her eyebrows above her sharp, black glasses. “Margo Mierzejewski,” she said coldly, introducing herself. 

“Uh, Curtis,” he answered, and smiled sweetly at her. She just stared, seemingly unimpressed, before heading back to the elevator.

Curtis turned and shot a tight-lipped, _what-the-fuck-was-that?_ look at Mickey.

“Yea she’s a cunt,” Mickey said bluntly, unlocking the apartment. “She owns a ton of properties. Fuckin’ loaded.” 

Mickey pushed open the door, flicked on the light-switch to the hallway, and tossed Curtis’s bag onto a dark wooden side-table. There were other escorts in this building – eight of them to be exact – so he was familiar with the layout.

Curtis whistled low and long, obviously impressed. As you entered, the view of the city was immediate, and – in Curtis’s words – pretty decent; you could just make out Lake Michigan in the dark between some buildings across the way. 

“Yea it’s pretty nice here,” Mickey observed, flicking on all the lights one by one, his boots squeaking awkwardly on the stone floor.

The entrance hallway was long, and led to a fairly big living room with a half-wall of glass windows running the whole length of the apartment. The entire thing was open – there were no walls separating the living room from the kitchen, but an island sat neatly in the middle, surrounded by stools. Past the kitchen, down a hallway on the left, was the bathroom, which had a massive tub as well as a standing shower. Beyond that was the bedroom, which occupied a corner view - the half-wall of windows continuing down and around the bed. There were roll-down blackout blinds pulled halfway down on each. 

“Fuckin’ Hell,” Curtis exclaimed, flopping himself down on the bed with a sigh. “This place is twice as big as my old apartment.” He rested his right hand on his stomach, causing his sweater to rise up slightly. Mickey caught a glimpse of the soft patch of orange hair that grew just below his naval, above the grey waistband of his boxers. That twitch from the club came back suddenly with a vengeance, and Mickey sniffed loudly to break his own silence.

Curtis yawned then, turning his head to glance at the clock that sat on a side-table. It was almost 3am.

“Yea I should probably let you get some sleep,” Mickey declared, rubbing his hand hastily through his hair. Curtis sat up, intertwining his fingers in his lap. 

“Yea, um, will I see you tomorrow, or...?” Mickey thought he sounded almost hopeful, and he kinda liked it. He really fucking liked it.

“Uh, yea,” Mickey lied, surprising himself. The drop-off, run down, and ten-second tour was usually as far as his hospitality extended; beyond that, his only interactions with the escorts were strictly club related. It was grunt work to get everything else settled, sorted, moved, and signed; but fuck if he didn’t want to do it all himself.

“Okay,” Curtis exhaled, giving him a tired look with tired eyes as he rubbed the back of his head.

“I’ll come by around noon, to get your apartment shit sorted,” Mickey put in. _There_ , he thought, _I’m coming on business_.

Curtis nodded and stood, walking Mickey back towards the door.

“So will I get to meet the boss?” he asked abruptly, leaning casually against the doorjamb, just as Mickey was about to leave. “One of the legendary Milkoviches from South Side?” When he said Mickey’s name, he raised his hands – like fucking jazz hands – as if talking about something mythical and elusive that probably didn’t actually exist.

Mickey rubbed absently at his temple.

“Uh, you already have,” he said, biting his lip and raising his eyebrows in a _hey-nice-to-meet-you_ sort of way before turning abruptly and walking back to some semblance of peace. 

~

Ian fell back against the doorjamb, watching Mickey walk towards the elevator in his fitted black jeans and green army jacket. He was probably aware, Ian thought, that he was still there in the doorway, watching; but Ian stayed put despite this, pushing his luck just a little further.

The elevator _dinged_ and the doors opened; Mickey stepped in, leaning back into the corner. Ian waited patiently – holding in a growing sense of panic – and as the door began to slide closed, there it was: Mickey glanced up at him, his blue eyes meeting Ian’s gaze for just a moment before he disappeared from sight.

Ian smiled knowingly to himself, that small feeling of recognition making itself known before he turned and quickly slammed the door, locking it behind him. Hastily, he unzipped his backpack and dug out his cell phone.

Glancing around the apartment, he eyed the WiFi modem beside the TV under one of the windows and strode over to it, looking at the back for the password before connecting and instantly bringing up the Google homepage. He quickly typed in _Milkovich_ and _Chicago_ before hitting the search button.

The first result was about Terry Milkovich and his fight with City Council in renaming his club, SS. Ian clicked on it, skimming through the article with his middle finger. Ian remembered this story; apparently a lot of people thought SS was in reference to Nazism, but Terry Milkovich had sworn up and down the block that it stood for South Side. In the end – as always – Terry won out, and so SS – for South Side – was his new place of employment.

Ian clicked back to the results page, scrolling through the hits until one near the bottom – from five years go – caught his eye. He tapped on it, instantly found what he was looking for, and his stomach tightened with a feeling that was either embarrassment or mortification. There at the top of the page was a picture of Mickey, a black and white mug shot that did no justice to the smoothness of his skin or the sharpness of his eyes and nose. Above it, the headline read:

 _Son of Mogul Terry Milkovich Charged with Possession and Speeding_.

“Shiiiiit,” Ian exhaled in realization, and flopped down onto the couch, holding his phone above his face as he leaned his head back. He read the first line underneath:

_Mikhailo Milkovich, youngest son of Chicago millionaire Terry Milkovich, was arrested Friday night in South Side…_

“Mickey fucking _Milkovich_.” Ian clicked the screen off and tossed his phone aside, pinching his eyes shut as he quickly thought back through their entire conversation – from booze room to bedroom – trying to remember if he had said, or done, anything that may or may not have been all that good for his reputation. There may have been a comment about Mickey’s father not liking his red hair…?

“Oh fuck.” Ian almost laughed, rubbing his tired face in his hands. How stupid could he be? Then again, nobody from Sirko’s direct family had ever had any contact with him, not in all the time he’d worked at The Fairy Tale. Ian had assumed – rather stupidly, he saw – that the Milkoviches would be even more discreet, seeing as they _were_ the bigger fish in the pond; besides, Ian never paid any attention to people he didn’t know; he knew about Terry, of course – he was South Side royalty; but his kids?

“Fuck fuck fuck,” Ian spat again, lazily grabbing his phone before heading back into the bedroom, his face hot with embarrassment.

He peeled off his hoodie, followed by his undershirt, and once again laid down on the bed, his legs dangling off the end. The message inbox in his phone had one new notification, and he opened it, reading the text Lip had sent through two hours before.

 _Freddie pissed on Debbie today and it was fuckin hilarious_ , it read; attached was a candid photo of Debbie, holding a tiny naked Freddie away from her like a football, her face scrunched up in disgust as she looked down at the wet stain on her shirt; Frank and Carl were in the background, laughing.

Ian smiled softly, and missed them – well, all but one of them – a little more than usual.

With a few taps, he saved the photo to his camera roll. Thumbing past it, he scrolled one by one through the photos he had taken in the car of downtown; it wasn’t like he’d never seen Chicago at night before, it was just that he liked taking photos of things he thought were nice and wanted to remember.

After deleting about five or so that were too blurry, he came suddenly to a photo of Mickey; he had taken it as Mickey drove, setting the camera down in his lap as if he were simply taking a break from all his nervous chatter. Mickey had been paying no attention to him, not listening – he was sure – to a single word he said; he was just staring out the windshield, watching the road; his left hand was on the wheel, his left elbow up on the ledge of the window, and his right hand held a Glock. Ian brought the phone up to his face, thinking maybe it was just a little bit stalker-ish as he looked again at those tattoos on Mickey’s fingers, which now made much more sense. Mickey just looked…cool, Ian thought, but it was as if he didn’t even know it, despite being a Milkovich.

Any other person – a _normal_ person, Ian thought – would probably have a more logical reaction to the events of the last hour, but something about being in that car with Mickey – the sudden thrill he felt at the slightest hint of danger – took him back to robbing houses with Lip on the South Side; to smoking weed in the school bathroom; and stealing helicopters from the United States Army.

He hadn’t felt that real in a long, long time.

At the thought, a new wave of embarrassment crashed over him; he had been so chatty, so stupid, yet so alight with the whole situation: being an escort, being an escort in front of a Milkovich, being an escort who didn’t know he _was_ a Milkovich, being an escort who thought a Milkovich he didn’t even know was a Milkovich was kinda hot and dangerous, and telling said Milkovich he hoped his red hair wouldn’t be a problem for his father…

“Well, shit.” If he _had_ made an ass of himself, it was too late to do anything about it now; yet, he was fairly sure that Mickey Milkovich hadn’t had a problem with him – quite the opposite, actually. There had been an atmosphere in that car – Ian was sure of it – and later on in the elevator, too. Sure, maybe the sudden glances and clipped conversation was just how Mickey was, but that look – that last look he had waited for from the back corner of the elevator…

No, Ian was positive that at the least, Mickey Milkovich thought that he was a little bit beautiful, too.

Ian’s hand fluttered absently over his jeans at the memory, gently tugging at his zipper as he thought about those blue eyes, his jet black hair, crooked smile, shit-talking mouth, the way he smelled like the South Side, and those seemingly perfect finger tattoos that read FUCK and U-UP.

Ian kinda wished he would…


	2. Drive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Ian's first night dancing at the club, and Mickey takes a lot of time to show him not only the ropes, but maybe a bit of his softer side as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few notes - The ages of them in this story are the same at the end of season ten. Yes, the Gallaghers will make an appearance! I listen to a lot of music while I write, and will sometimes give suggestions that I enjoyed during certain scenes; for example, I listened to the infamous Club Kiss song as I wrote the club scenes. I also listened to a lot of Fast Car by Tracy Chapman, as it fits the soft side of these chaotic boys so well. Feel free to follow me on Twitter @WhatsaMattavich for updates and excerpts! Lastly, I felt at first like their chemistry was moving along insanely fast, but then I realized that that's the thing I always loved most about Gallavich - there was nothing, and then there was them. I wanted to keep that pace.

At 8am, Ian awoke to the sound of his alarm, which sounded like a fucking foghorn; it was the most annoying alarm he could find, and he appreciated it; it reminded him of all the years at home, waking up to the sounds of chaos. Reaching over to the side table, he flicked it off without actually opening his eyes, and grabbed his meds and the glass of water he had put there only five hours before.

“Waay too early,” he mumbled to himself, swallowing his pills in one go before rolling over and promptly falling back to sleep.

A loud humming woke him sometime later, the sound entering into his dreams long before his eyes finally fluttered open. Ian laid there for a moment, his mind adjusting to the still unfamiliar room before registering that the sound was coming from somewhere in the apartment. He glanced around, wondering absently just how the Hell he had ended up here, before he swung his legs out of bed, wobbling out into the daylight, still half asleep.

There was a small square panel by the front door, from which the noise was now coming in sharp, staccato buzzes.

“Ahh,” he sighed, realizing rather belatedly that it was the panel for the lobby door. “Hello?” he croaked, scratching absently at his stubble as he pressed the _TALK_ button.

“Hoooly fuck,” a voice said sharply, and Ian knew at once it was Mickey. “Rise and fuckin’ shine Cinderella.”

Ian smiled to himself and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, pressing the _DOOR_ button for two or three seconds before sauntering back into his room and pulling on a pair of old running shorts and a t-shirt full of holes. Glancing at the clock, he saw it was just after noon.

Mickey banged on the door, as if still trying to wake the dead.

“Hang on!” Ian yelled, throwing back the bolt; he found that he was inexplicably happy to see that there – on the other side of his door – was the youngest, felon son of Terry Milkovich, black hair combed back, the smallest piece escaping and flopping over his forehead as his sharp blue eyes peered up at him from under dark lashes. Ian glanced past him then, and felt his mood sink a little when he saw that Mickey wasn’t alone – there were three other men with him, each one bigger than the last.

“Finally…” Mickey rolled his eyes.

“Mr. Milkovich,” Ian said in greeting, trying for a new sense of sarcastic professionalism; he had wanted – of course – to fall back into the easiness they had had the night before, but knew it wasn’t his place to push his luck in front of strangers – not with Mickey Milkovich.

“Finally caught up, did ya?” Mickey asked, pushing past him; he strolled casually into the kitchen and promptly sat down on a stool. Ian stood back as the three other men followed, but they didn’t take a seat; they stood off to the side near the couch, like fucking lurkers.

Mickey must have seen the way Ian glanced at them.

“Huey, Dewey, and Louie,” Mickey exclaimed, pointing at his guests without actually looking. “The hired help.”

Ian pressed his lips together to keep from laughing; Mickey’s abrasiveness and utter lack of empathy was surprising, yet also kind of endearing; he also supposed this was all the explanation he was going to get, so he pulled up a seat across from his boss, covering his mouth as he yawned rather loudly. Mickey watched him do this, and he half-turned in his seat, glancing back at the hired help before snapping his fingers, like they were waiters at a restaurant and he was impatient as shit. One of the men stepped forward, handing him a brown paper bag.

“Here,” Mickey said, unrolling the top of the bag and pulling out a Styrofoam container. The smell of food hit Ian instantly, and his stomach growled. Mickey opened the lid and pushed the container across the countertop; inside was a stack of pancakes, scrambled eggs, and four slices of bacon. “I uhh, figured you wouldn’t have food so…” Mickey continued, trailing off as he scratched absently at the back of his head and glanced out the window.

 _This a date?_ Ian thought, wanting very badly to say it aloud, but knew it wouldn’t be welcomed – not right now. Instead, he looked away, scanning the kitchen as if he could find the utensils just by sitting there.

“First drawer, beside the fridge.” Mickey pointed his K finger in the general direction. Ian thought it was ironic – and somewhat of a turn-on – how that one finger could go from the trigger of a Glock to pushing his breakfast across the counter.

“Thanks,” he sighed, and got up, grabbing a fork and a knife before promptly sitting back down to dig in. He made a mental note to get some fucking groceries…

“So here’s how today’s gunna go,” Mickey continued – suddenly quite the businessman; his eyes flashed with something akin to authority, which made Ian glance back at his food. “You can either make a list of things you want from your old place and come with me to SS in a bit so I can show you around, or,” he scratched at his eyebrow, “you can go with the boys and tell them what you want in person, and someone else can show you around the club tonight.”

Ian got the sudden notion that Mickey was offering him something he never usually offered anyone – like this invitation to go with him wasn’t ever a guarantee. Mickey glanced at him then, waiting, arms folded in front of him on the counter-top, and Ian had a second sudden notion that Mickey _really_ wanted him to accept. Ian eyed him thoughtfully for just the briefest of moments, and liked the way the sunlight made Mickey’s skin seem jut as soft and pale as his own.

“Okay,” he agreed, mouth half-full of pancake. “Gimme some paper.”

Once the list was made, Mickey glanced over it quickly; there was nothing on it Ian was reluctant for him to see, mostly just clothes from the closet and drawers, books from a shelf, and some DVD’s – everything else he already had with him. Mickey handed it to one of the men – maybe Dewey, Ian thought – who had yet to say a single fucking word.

“If you have questions,” Mickey said, “call me.” They nodded like idiots, and disappeared back out the front door. Ian watched them go, tossing the empty container into the trash bin.

Now that they were alone, he wondered absently if their openness towards each other from the night before would return, or if Mickey had resolved himself to not let feelings – however subtle – get the best of him.

Ian tested the waters.

“Hope you’re not expecting me to act like that around you,” he said, pushing his luck like he couldn’t quite help it. Mickey glanced at him, and Ian thought he saw the edges of his lips pull up just a little.

“Not a chance, Fire-crotch,” he spat, sitting down on the arm of the couch.

 _There he is_.

Mickey peeled his leather jacket off and tossed it onto the cushions, the long sleeves of his dark blue undershirt hugging his thick arms and chest. Reaching into the pocket, he pulled out his pack of cigarettes and held them up to Ian.

“Do you mind?”

“Only if I can have one,” Ian shrugged, and thought it was probably out of character for Mickey Milkovich to ask permission for anything.

“Smoker eh?” Mickey asked, popping one between his teeth. “You’re just full of surprises.” He smiled widely, his eyes crinkling at the sides as he reached back into his pack, pulling out his Bic and lighting it. “Here,” he sniffed, holding it out for Ian, and the fact that it had just been on Mickey’s lips made Ian’s blood hot. He reached out and took it, purposefully grazing Mickey’s fingers just the smallest bit; it was more like a shock to him than a simple touch – but if Mickey noticed, Ian couldn’t tell; he just pulled out another cigarette for himself.

Ian watched him for a moment, the way he held the cigarette deep between his C and K fingers; the way the smoke curled out from between his parted lips, drifting up past his face. He _was_ remarkably different when they were alone, Ian thought, but whether it was simply _because_ they were alone, or because Mickey was actually just more comfortable not being in charge of others, Ian didn’t know; but he was looser somehow – still unbelievably direct, but in a more playful way, like he wasn’t constantly trying to control what he said, or how he looked. It made sense, Ian thought; he obviously had not only a reputation to uphold, but a certain level of respect. Ian _would_ have wondered why Mickey didn’t seem to demand that level of respect from him, but he wasn’t stupid – he knew why.

“You wanna get dressed or…?” Mickey asked suddenly, his eyes glancing quickly over Ian’s body, causing Ian to look down at himself, embarrassed at his own tired appearance.

“Shit, yea. Sorry.” Ian turned and cranked open the window, tossing half the cigarette out. It was a nice day, so he left it. “Should I shower or…?” Mickey cocked an eyebrow at him, picking an errant piece of tobacco off his tongue.

“Why the fuck would you do that?” he asked bluntly, his face turning a soft shade of pink. “Shower before your shift, dumbass.”

“Right.” Ian jutted out his lip, heading back towards his room to change, and the knowledge of Mickey being on the other side of the bedroom door was a constant thought in his mind as he did so.

Mickey was still sitting on the arm of the couch when Ian reappeared, his forehead pressed down into the palms of his hands as if he were thinking very hard about something. A sudden breeze drifted in through the window, and all at once, Ian could smell him; he wasn’t sure whether it was cologne, deodorant, a mixture of both, or just Mickey himself – he didn’t really care – but whatever it was, it was nice; more than that, it was comforting; it reminded Ian of rainy nights on the South Side, like wet earth, smoke, and whiskey. He took a deep breath. 

“Ready?” he asked, startling his guest, who looked up at him suddenly.

“Been ready for fuckin’ ages,” Mickey spat, sounding suddenly annoyed. He stood, grabbed his jacket from off the couch, and headed for the door. Once again, Ian followed, grabbing his backpack from off the table as they went.

Mickey’s car was matte black, which Ian hadn’t noticed the night before. It was beautiful in a surprisingly delicate way, and Ian wondered if the dark, subtle colours and the strong, soft angles that gave no hint to the actual power it had was a bit of a reflection on Mickey himself.

Sliding inside, Mickey reached directly into the glove box, promptly pulling out an iPhone with a matte black case.

“Here.” He handed the phone to Ian, who looked at it, turning it over in his hands before glancing at Mickey with a raised eyebrow. “It’s for work,” Mickey admitted, chewing briefly on his lip.

“Ahh, gotcha.” Ian touched his thumb gently to the home button; the screen came to life, and he actually laughed – loudly – as he saw that the screensaver was a picture of Howdy fucking Doody.

 _That was something, wasn’t it?_ he thought – jokes; they already had inside jokes.

“Oh, fuck off Mickey!” he spat, but the sudden dissipation of having to watch what he said was a relief, and he welcomed it.

“Alien lookin’,” Mickey stated, to nobody in particular, and Ian couldn’t help but smile at his complete lack of filtration system – whatever he seemed to think, he said, with no regard for the consequences.

Mickey grinned in return, though he never actually looked at Ian; he just started the car, put it in gear, and peeled out.

Ian tapped absently through the apps as Mickey drove, and was surprised to see two names already saved in his contacts: one was simply _Security_ , and the other was...

“I put my number in there, just in case, y’know?” Mickey put in, glancing over.

 _Yea,_ Ian thought, _just in case_.

“Who’s _Security_?”

“Organizes your dates, clients during the week,” Mickey said, thumbing his nose. “He’ll text you with info, and will also pick you up and drop you off.” Ian nodded, clicking the screen off and shoving it into his pocket.

“Does he stay with me during the dates?” He hoped he didn’t sound that vulnerable in front of Mickey, though he quite obviously hoped the answer was _yes_. Mickey looked at him, his eyes suddenly very thoughtful and understanding.

“Yea, man,” he said, his brow furrowing; he was almost quiet. “We wouldn’t just leave you alone…” Ian smiled at that, turning his head to glance out his window.

“Good.”

The club – Ian knew – wasn’t that far from his place, so he found it amusing that Mickey was driving him – not that he was complaining, but he could probably get there on the El or walk in the same amount of time, considering downtown traffic on a Saturday. Feigning interest in the things around him, Ian scratched at the back of his head, glancing around so he could look at Mickey. He found a sudden comfort in how Mickey always sat the same – like the picture on his phone, minus the Glock of course, which Ian knew was around here somewhere. He admired the smoothness of his forehead, the sharp angle of his nose, and the way his lips pouted outwards; Ian could tell by that mouth that driving was something Mickey loved to do, like everything else faded away from him; maybe it was always like that for Mickey, who knows, but there was a small, almost imperceptible grin that played constantly on the edges of his lips, as if at any second his face could break into a full-fledged smile; but Ian already knew – despite the short amount of time – that Mickey had more control than that – he probably had control over everything.

“My name’s Ian, by the way,” he admitted suddenly, wanting to break the silence as if this small admission was something he _couldn’t_ control. Mickey looked away from the road and risked a quick peek in Ian’s direction, left hand always on the wheel.

“Well I figured it wasn’t fucking _Curtis_ ,” he spat, saying _Curtis_ as if it were a dirty word; not that Ian thought there was a single dirty word that Mickey probably didn’t say, or like.

“Don’t like it?”

“Fuck no.”

Ian let a quick burst of air escape out his nose in amusement. He realized rather belatedly that Mickey had never actually called him Curtis in the first place.

_He must be used to it_ , he thought, _people in the business using fake names_.

“Got a better idea?” Ian asked, inquiring rather genuinely. Mickey raised an eyebrow and tilted his head, giving Ian a _whatta-you-think_ look. “Oh besides fucking Fire-crotch,” Ian huffed, catching his meaning; he shoved a fist at Mickey, as if he were going to punch him, and for the first time, Mickey actually laughed – a genuine belly laugh that made him suddenly seem like he was just a normal guy, living a completely normal life.

It made Ian smile more.

“Never tell people that,” Mickey said suddenly, his smile fading slightly. “Never tell anyone your real shit.” Ian knew this, of course, and besides Mickey, he never actually had.

“Sirko thinks my real name’s Roger Spikey,” Ian admitted, and had to bite his lip _hard_ to keep from laughing.

“Roger fucking _Spikey_!?”

“Yea, some kid I blew in high school.” Ian broke, rubbing his chin absently as he snorted. “Had a donkey dick.”

Ian wasn’t sure exactly why he told Mickey this, but he knew it had something to do with the colossal misunderstanding from the night before, like by not knowing who Mickey was, he unintentionally broke the ice between them, crashing down that barrier reserved for sudden shyness at the meeting of two strangers. Whatever it was, he was glad of it as he watched Mickey fall to pieces, like he was watching an old friend find amusement in the stories of their past.

SS had been converted from some sort of old building – it had a red brick exterior, rising three stories; the entrance however had obviously been redesigned, with slate-black marble now covering the ground-floor wall. Ian had never actually seen it before, and was somewhat surprised at its sheer size.

“Is the whole thing a club?” he asked, glancing up at is as they pulled around back to what Ian saw was VIP parking. “Must be nice being the boss’s son…” he observed absently.

“Shut up.” Mickey parked and hopped out, Ian following suit. “It’s mostly a club,” he continued. “You’ll see.”

There were two doors at the back, one on either side of the building. Mickey walked towards the one on the left, and Ian saw what looked like the universal symbol for _male_ on the door. Ian craned his neck, glancing all the way down to the other side of the lot to see if the other door had the symbol for _female_ ; but he couldn’t tell, it was too far away.

Mickey knocked, and a man who was clearly security opened it.

“Mr. Milkovich,” he said, nodding at Mickey. Ian made a second mental note to not call Mickey anything other than _Mr. Milkovich_ when they weren’t alone.

“Sergei,” Mickey said, sliding another cigarette between his lips. “Pops here?”

“Not yet.”

“Good.” Mickey motioned towards Ian. “This is Curtis, he’s new as of tonight.”

_So we’re back to business_ , Ian thought, thankful at least that Mickey had used his alias; though he didn’t know why he wouldn’t have, this _was_ his business. Sergei nodded in acknowledgment, pushing the door back so they could enter.

They stepped into what Ian immediately saw was a change room, with metal lockers, showers, and mirrors – a lot of fucking mirrors.

“You get ready in here,” Mickey said, waving his hand nonchalantly to encompass the whole space. “Sergei will let you in at the back.” Ian figured that the other door was for the female dancers, then. “This is where you’ll work,” Mickey continued, walking through the change room and pushing through another door that opened up into a single, massive room; the second floor had been completely knocked out, so the ceiling started at the third floor. There were eight raised platforms within the room, surrounded by high tables, couches, and chairs. Based on what he saw from the exterior, it looked to Ian like the whole building had been walled down the middle, dividing the massive open space into two.

“What’s on the other side of the wall?” has asked casually, impressed at the way his voice echoed around the room.

“The main club,” Mickey replied. “One half is the club, the other is for dancers.”

Ian nodded, glancing around; absently he noticed there was a second wall running perpendicular to the main one, obviously dividing the men’s half from the women’s. Unlike the main divider wall however, this wall was only the height of the first floor, so Ian could see over it to the ceiling and wall on the other side, but it was still way too high to see into the room next door; besides that, it was also entirely covered in mirrors.

There was a walkway along the walls – like one long balcony – running the entire perimeter of the second floor; there were also a series of doors.

“What’s up there?” Ian asked, curious, and glanced at Mickey, who rubbed absently at his eyebrow, which Ian was starting to realize meant he was uncomfortable.

“Uh, private rooms,” he blurted. “For clients and shit.” Ian pressed his lips together, holding in a grin. “And this is the main club…” Mickey declared, changing the subject abruptly as he headed through yet another door.

“Jesus, how many fuckin’ doors are in this place?” Ian asked sarcastically, following Mickey through into the second half of the building.

“Enough to keep you safe, man,” Mickey sighed, and the way he said it made Ian’s chest tighten.

The main club also had the two-story ceiling, but there were no walls whatsoever, just two bars that ran down either side, blue and white lights glowing outwards from the fridges behind them. On the ceiling was a vast array of speakers and lights, all hanging limp and dead in the mid-afternoon.

“Yo Mick!” a voice said suddenly, and they both glanced up towards the walkway. A young man Ian didn’t know was walking along above them, casually smoking a cigarette. He had dirty blonde hair combed neatly back, a small bit of peach fuzz, and was wearing what looked like a fairly expensive suit. He glanced at Ian, a slight smile pulling up the corner of his mouth in a way Ian didn’t really like – like he thought he knew something that wasn’t true.

“Iggy,” Mickey said simply, and stepped methodically away from Ian, as if out of instinct. Ian tried not to mind it.

“My brother treating you well?” Iggy asked, and leaned over the railing, raising his eyebrows as he looked directly at Ian.

 _Brother_. Ian glanced between them, looking for any kind of resemblance; there really wasn’t one, except for the fact that there was obviously no form of subtlety or filter within this fucking family, because Ian knew exactly what he had meant.

“Perfectly, Mr. Milkovich,” Ian replied, the sarcasm not lost on Mickey, who chewed the edge of his lip and smiled. To Ian’s surprise, Iggy snorted, and completely ignored him.

“Dad wants you here tonight,” he said to his brother, turning to head back in the direction he had come. “At nine. It’s gunna snow...”

Mickey nodded at this, like it made sense, and glanced back at Ian, jerking his head in a _follow me_ way, heading towards the main entrance and back out into the sun.

“Want me to drop you off?” Mickey asked, strolling down the alley towards the parking lot.

“That’s it?” Ian was surprised; the whole tour had lasted less than ten minutes. There was no way Mickey didn’t have better things to do on a Saturday…

“Nothing more really to know,” Mickey admitted. “You dance, you escort, you keep the clients happy…” Mickey trailed off, pulling his key fob from his pocket as he glanced at the sky. “So you want a ride back or…?”

“If you don’t mind.” Mickey shot him a look that said _why the fuck would I mind?_ without actually having to say it.

Once in the car, Ian pulled out his work phone, suddenly curious if any appointments had already been booked into his calendar. He was relieved to see there were none.

“So like, what _are_ the rules about that?” he asked suddenly, feeling embarrassed that this was his job, and that he had to ask for details about it from Mickey. “About the sex stuff, I mean…in the rooms, and with clients...” Mickey didn’t look at him, just reversed the car out of habit.

“Everything besides penetrative sex,” he answered bluntly, clearing his throat as if just getting it out was a bit of a struggle.

“Gotcha.” Ian scratched absently at his arm, going through different scenarios in his mind, all of which were unpleasant; none of which were with Mickey.

“But it’s up to you,” Mickey put in then, glancing quickly at him, his eyes slightly softer. “You’re allowed to say no.”

Ian met is gaze and purposefully held it, and Mickey – the perfect driver – swerved just a hair off centre before looking back at the road.

Mickey pulled up in front of Ian’s place, the car idling loudly as he waited for him to go. Ian opened the passenger door, and was just about to step out when he had the irrepressible urge to ask the one thing he had been wanting an answer for, but never really knew how to go about it. Now, thanks to Iggy, he had an opening.

“Your brother obviously knows you’re gay,” Ian said bluntly, his own directness taking him by surprise; but fuck it, if the Milkoviches could be straightforward, so could he; in fact, he felt like not beating around the bush was the only way to really get to Mickey in the first place. Maybe he was stepping way too far past the line, but a part of him didn’t really care.

Mickey looked at him, _really_ looked at him, his eyes narrowing slightly as if he were weighing out the options of being honest.

“Yes,” he said finally; simply _yes_ ; and nothing more. Ian nodded absently, a feeling of relief washing over him that he was surprised at – he hadn’t realized just how much he had been hoping that maybe, just maybe, there was a chance, even if the odds were stacked against him.

“Guess I’ll see you tonight, then” he said, smiling at Mickey the best way he knew how, and left it at that.

All of his boxes were waiting in his apartment when he got back; there were only a few of them, so he dug through one by one, folding things to put on shelves and hanging things up in his closets.

When he was back from the store he called Lip, putting the phone on speaker and setting it on the counter as he unpacked his groceries.

“Hey loser,” Lip said casually, and Ian missed him. “How’s business?”

“Got a new gig actually,” Ian admitted, shoving some eggs into the fridge.

“No more suckin’ dick?” Ian snorted.

“Suckin’ richer dicks.” Ian didn’t want to mention the Milkoviches, not just yet.

“Hey,” Lip said, and took a sip of something. “Whatever floats your boat, man.”

“More like, whatever pays the bills.”

They were quiet for a moment, letting the sounds of life slip through their phones.

“You being safe?” Lip asked then, and Ian knew that he worried.

“Yes, and I’m taking my meds.”

“Good.”

“How’s Freddie?”

“Annoying,” Lip laughed, and took another sip. “But fucking great, man.”

“Well I can’t wait to see you guys,” Ian admitted, and wondered when he’d get the chance.

“Soon, okay?” Lip said, and it wasn’t so much a question.

“Promise.”

Ian made a third mental note to ask Mickey about time away. Maybe he could text him…

“Oh hey, I gotta go,” Lip put in suddenly, the sound of Freddie’s crying coming loudly from somewhere behind him.

“Say hey to everyone for me!”

“Yea yea will do.” With that, Lip hung up the phone, and the sudden quietness in the apartment made Ian uneasy. He walked over to the speaker in the corner and hooked up his phone, putting on some playlist that was just loud enough to seem like home.

At 7:15 he pulled out the matte black phone, smiling at the wallpaper before opening a message box to Mickey. He stared at the flashing icon for a moment, not altogether sure what to say. In the end, he went with straightforwardness.

**Is it okay if I take time off?**

He sent it. Getting up and stripping off his shirt, he threw it carelessly onto the sink as he strode into the bathroom and turned on the shower. It was one of those massive walk-ins, with a shower-head in the middle that spat water out like rain; there was another one on the wall – a removable one – that put out a more steady pressure; and then there were a bunch of buttons and switches that Ian had no fucking clue how to use. He was about to climb in when his phone buzzed.

**Mickey: You haven’t even started your first shift yet!** Ian was sure he was being facetious, and he smiled to himself.

**Yes boss…** he wrote back, and headed in to get clean.

Leaning his palms against the tiles, Ian let the water cascade over him, warming him from the outside in. He was happy today; calm. Some days he wasn’t; some days he was tired, or inexplicably sad, and those were the days he had to worry about – the sad ones. It was just the meds, he knew – his disease in general – but today was a good day. Most of them were now.

He hadn’t had a bad day since Fiona left, and he also hadn’t expected it to hit him that hard, but it did; somewhere in his mind, her leaving was almost as bad as Monica’s death, because although he was grown now, wasn’t it always true that every boy still wants a mother? And that had always been Fiona, despite what they all thought at the time. There were a lot of sad days after that, even though he _was_ happy for her – he didn’t want her to stay, not after everything; but there was a sudden emptiness at her going, like their compass had lost its arrow, and the anxiety of believing he had nobody to point him home dropped into him like a weight. Of course, at the time he couldn’t see it – he never could; but Lip did; Debbie did; they all did; so they took him without asking – thank fuck – and they fixed him; they readjusted his meds, and he got better – not all the way better, never all the way – but eventually he climbed out of that hole, and although he knew there would be more on the horizon, for now, he was up in the sun.

The job at the Fairy Tale had fallen into his lap sometime after that; he had gone there alone, on a night where he just wanted to try and _feel_ _something_ ; and sometimes, men could give him that; but it was always just a Band-Aid over a wound he knew would never quite heal. So, there he had been offered a job, and there he had accepted. Now, standing in a shower the size of the entire bathroom at home, Ian wasn’t actually sure – other than for convenience of money – how he had ended up here.

 _It doesn’t matter_ , he thought suddenly, pushing his hand through his soaking hair as he heard his phone buzz with a reply. _Today is a good day_.

**Mickey: I’ll talk to you about it on the ride home.**

By 8:30 Ian was on the El, freshly showered, doused in cologne, and ready to work. He wasn’t altogether proud of it – was anyone? – but he _was_ good at it.

He glanced again at the message from Mickey, rubbing his thumb along the screen as he considered whether or not to get a pass for the El, because at this rate, he wouldn’t be taking it a whole Hell of a lot.

Less than fifteen minutes later, he was there, being let in the back door by Sergei, who now had on a suit and an earpiece. Ian glanced over to the VIP parking, but didn’t see Mickey’s car.

The music inside was deafening, even though Ian was only in the change room. A handful of other dancers were there, already changed and waiting for nine. The room reeked of body spray, and something about it excited his nerves.

“You Curtis?” one of them asked, and Ian nodded. “I’m Chris,” he said, and pointed absently at the others. “That’s Jake, Conrad, Nick, and Guy.”

 _Guy?_ Ian thought, and bit his lip to keep from laughing. He wondered if Mickey knew him…

“I won’t remember any of that,” Ian said, trying to sound lighthearted, but he was being honest – he didn’t really care.

Opening his locker, he shoved in his backpack and pulled out his new uniform for Saturdays. It wasn’t really a uniform, more of a pair of underwear – or shorts if you were being modest. They were small, but at least they weren’t gold; they were houndstooth, which Ian thought fit perfectly with the Milkovich ideal of everything appearing classier on the outside, though underneath, they were all just South Side trash.

Ian stripped naked, glancing around to ensure none of the others were watching before slipping into the shorts; he reached inside, adjusting his dick so it not only looked better, but was more comfortable. He then looked in the mirror, combing his hair back, ensuring it was all set in place. Finally, he rubbed nervously at his jaw, enjoying the look of the small bit of stubble he had decided to leave.

At nine on the dot, Ian headed out; the room was already half-full of men, eyeing him like the joint at a party as they each took their place on a platform. The music echoed around him, and the lights from the open ceiling above flashed like cop cars, travelling around the room like it was the South Side on any given weekend. Ian felt suddenly drunk – or high – the unexpected energy running through his veins and setting him alight, making him smile.

As if sensing his presence, Ian glanced up at the balconies then, and there was Mickey; he didn’t think Mickey had seen him yet – he wasn’t looking in his direction – but he _was_ there, talking to his brother Iggy. Ian felt his blood rise as he looked at him, the beat that reverberated around him making him feel euphoric. Mickey was different – he had changed his clothes, and was now wearing a suit, the fit of which made Ian think he was the only man in the room worth looking at. The whole thing was – of course – matte black: the pants, fitted snuggly against his thick legs; the shirt, buttoned all the way up with matching black buttons; the jacket, undone at the front, but still clinging tightly to his wide shoulders and arms; and that ass…

Ian licked absently at his lips and looked away, moving suddenly to the music in hopes that he could stop the blood from rushing to his dick, and that somehow, his body alone could call Mickey’s eyes to him.

~

Mickey knew he was there before he actually saw him; the night had already started, and the club was already half-full, which meant somewhere down there, was Ian. He didn’t make a move to search him out though, not yet; he had business to do first, and didn’t need the distraction.

“Let’s go,” his dad said, walking past him suddenly and heading to the stairs that would take them up to the offices on the third floor.

Mickey followed, fighting every urge to glance downwards.

Upstairs, they entered Terry’s main office – an overly large, well-windowed room full of mahogany and money. Terry took his place at the head of the table, Iggy on his left, and with Colin out of town, Mickey sat on his right. The rest of the table was composed of sergeants – second-in-commands that in turn, ran the factions under them. It was a big business, and thinking about it all made Mickey thankful he was third in line to the throne.

“There’s a shipment coming in tonight at the docks,” Terry started, lighting a cigar and leaning back in his chair. “Yacht. Canadian.” A burst of air escaped Mickey’s nose in amusement; nobody ever suspected the fucking Canadians.

“Who takes lead?” Mickey asked, leaning his arms onto the table. His father glanced at him, a large cloud of smoke escaping from between his lips. It was things like this that set the Milkoviches apart in the business – they always ensured someone with the Milkovich name was present, never leaving anything in the hands of someone outside the family. Even for something as simple as an escort pick-up…

“Iggy will,” their father said. “Since you did last night’s run.” Mickey glanced at his brother, who smiled at him as if knowing that Mickey’s pick-up hadn’t been all that burdensome.

“I’ll take Ivan and Andre.” Iggy motioned to the two men on his left; they were the biggest at the table, and also happened to be family.

“Good,” Terry exclaimed, squishing the end of his cigar in the ashtray, saving it for later. “Boat’s called _Zara_ , take a few grunts, but not a lot. Meet with Tommy at the dock as always, eleven o’clock.”

“What’s the weight?” Mickey inquired, wondering absently at the fallout if things went tits-up.

“Fifty kilos.”

“Well fuck,” Mickey spat, lipping a new a cigarette. “You better take heavyweight.” Unlike the sergeants, heavyweights did the dirty work: they were muscle, arsenal, security, disposal; whatever the situation called for, they could do it.

“Call them,” their father said in agreement, and stood. “Keep your phones on.” With that, he left the room, his two bodyguards following closely behind.

“I’ll keep an eye on things here,” Mickey said casually, leaning back in his chair as he smoked.

“Oh, I’m sure you will.” Iggy winked at him before pulling out his phone, and Mickey grinned, his cigarette almost falling out of his mouth.

Once everyone had left the room, Mickey crossed over and down the hall, making his way to the stairs that took him down to the balcony above the female escort’s section of the club. It wasn’t where he wanted to go, but this _was_ still work. He glanced down, watching the women dance, their small outfits riding up in places that Mickey didn’t think looked all that comfortable or sexy; however, there was a large crowd of men in there tonight who clearly disagreed; along with a few women. Mickey made eye contact with one of the security guards outside the door, and motioned for him to go into the room – having extra eyes and a pair of hands could never hurt.

Continuing down, he glanced into the main club, scanning the writhing crowd for anything he thought warranted his attention; there was a fight in the back corner, but his men were already on it. Besides that, there was nothing.

“Fuck it,” he mumbled to himself, a feeling of impatience and need growing within him as he walked down around the end of the walkway that was vibrating with the sound of the bass.

On the other side, he stood by the wall that separated the crowd from Ian.

Mickey glanced down, and saw him immediately – his hair stood out like fire; he was moving, dancing, as if he didn’t care what people thought or who exactly was watching. The mirrors on either side of him reflected back all angles of his body, and Mickey watched. Ian was fit, his stomach contracting as he moved, showing the shadows and contours of his abs in different coloured lights; his arms were thick and freckled; his legs were long, and despite the distance, Mickey could see the thick dusting of dark red hair he had admired quietly that morning. His ass was perfect.

Mickey chewed on his lip, his knuckles cracking as his fists tightened involuntarily. The song was one Mickey didn’t know – some remix – but it was fucking loud in his chest, making the way Ian moved that much more intense, as if his own heart was suddenly beating to Ian’s rhythm, and not its own. Mickey wanted suddenly to be down there with him, feeling the way Ian’s skin felt against his own; feeling Ian’s stomach contract as he pressed up against him…

As if sensing not only his presence, but his thoughts, Ian glanced up suddenly, their eyes meeting as Ian turned his whole body towards him, like he wanted to give him a better view. Mickey bit harder into his lip and almost tasted blood as Ian rubbed a single hand through his hair, his eyes closing in a look that resembled pleasure before dragging them both down along his abs – over the hair of his stomach – his hands coming to rest on the tops of his thighs by his cock as he danced just for Mickey. Mickey had the sudden image in his mind of being able to do that with his own hands, and despite the full club, it was suddenly as if Ian was the only one there, and the sounds of everything died away as the blood rushed through his ears, just like it did when he drove. Mickey looked again – he _really_ looked – and noticed a tattoo on Ian’s ribcage he had been too distracted to notice before, and maybe the reflection of another one on his shoulder that he couldn’t quite make out. When he glanced back up, Ian was looking at him intently through narrowed eyes, smiling subtly as if he knew exactly what he was doing.

“Fucking dick,” Mickey said aloud, laughing to himself as he shook his head, trying to disperse the blood somewhere else. There were quite a few times in his life when Mickey had wanted something, but never this badly. He glanced around the room below, somehow managing to briefly pull his eyes away from all that Ian was. There were only men in there tonight, about forty of them, lounging on the couches, standing at the high tables. Quite a few of them were watching the new redhead, one reaching out every now and then to slide a bill into his hand or his shorts. Mickey rubbed at his eyebrow, a fairly unknown feeling clawing its way into his chest.

“Fuck,” he spat, suddenly quite annoyed – more with himself than the tippers. This is why you never mixed business with pleasure, because shit got complicated. He was fucking jealous.

Mickey was about to walk away when Sergei caught his eye and waved him down, which usually meant someone wanted a private room.

_Fuck_. His stomach tightened a litte.

Mickey went down the back stairs, opening the back door to the change room. He glanced absently at Ian’s locker as he went by, sniffing loudly as distraction as he entered the men’s room.

Ian saw him at once, and smiled a little, the corner of his mouth pulling up as he once again touched his stomach, as if in invitation. Mickey turned away, trying – and failing – to ignore it.

“Private room?” he asked Sergei, who nodded in return. “Who?”

“The doctor,” he replied, and motioned to one of their regulars, who was watching Ian intently; the guy was a douchebag, Mickey knew, but a good tipper. That was something, right?

_Fuck._ Mickey felt the heat rise in his chest.

“First room,” he yelled over the music, pulling out his set of keys and handing them to Sergei, who headed upstairs. Mickey caught Ian’s eye, and tilted his head in the direction of the change room, summoning him to follow. Ian stepped down from the platform, the sheen of sweat that covered his whole body catching the light.

“What’s up?” he asked as they entered the change room, his bubbliness returning at once. He was out of breath, air coming hard from between his parted lips. Mickey tried not to look at his dick in those shorts, but did watch the quick rising and falling of his chest, the tattoo of an eagle holding a rifle catching his eye, and he wondered absently what the Hell that was about.

“You have a private client,” Mickey said, controlling his voice the best he could. “Room one.”

“Oh,” Ian exhaled, and laughed a little. “Okay.”

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” Mickey told him again, and almost wished Ian would say no, even if it was bad for business.

But all he said was, “I know,” before turning to head for the stairs. He stopped, looking at himself in the mirror and fixing his hair.

“Are those _tits_!?” Mickey exclaimed suddenly, finally getting a good look at the tattoo on Ian’s shoulder; and despite the jealousy that was eating him alive, he fucking laughed – he couldn’t help it, it was just so out of place for the porcelain boy.

“Oh fuck off Mick,” Ian spat, and turned, punching Mickey on the shoulder. It wasn’t hard, but it stung just enough that Mickey grabbed at it, feeling the after effects of Ian’s touch, like a shock.

“Ow.”

“You look good by the way,” Ian said suddenly, his face turning serious as he glanced at Mickey. “You’re kinda like your car…”

Mickey stopped laughing, trying to compose his face as he looked back into Ian’s eyes; he had no idea what the fuck that comment even meant, but the way Ian glanced over his body from head to toe made him think it was a compliment; and despite Ian’s gaze, Mickey looked too, the heat of Ian’s body warming his face as he glanced down over his chest, the light dusting of auburn hair trailing all the way down to the massive bulge in his shorts that Mickey knew on instinct was real. That welcomed twitch returned, and he had to speak to keep himself from doing anything stupid.

“There’s a panic button,” he said instead, as if it was an errant afterthought to change the subject, but it wasn’t – Ian needed to know; and he would have told him anyways, but something about the way he looked at him then made him feel suddenly and inexplicably protective. “On the underside of the table in the room, there’s a button. If you press it, someone will come...”

“I’ll be fine, Mick,” Ian admitted, softly, the corner of his mouth pulling up. “Now let me go do my job, or the boss will fire me.”

With that, Ian turned, heading up the stairs to his waiting client.

_Fuck_ , Mickey thought again, though whether it was out of anger, jealousy, lust, or all three, he wasn’t altogether sure.

Mickey leaned over the railing, glancing back and forth between the busyness down below, and the room on the other side of the club. The panic lights were above each door, and they would flash red if activated. Mickey kept eyeing it, and went through four cigarettes and two beers by the time Ian finally strolled out forty-five minutes later, holding the doctor’s hand by just the fingertips, pulling him back towards the stairs. Mickey watched them intently, rubbing absently at his temple as he tried – and failed again – not to think about anything that could’ve happened inside that room, or just how Ian’s fingertips felt…

~

Ian stepped off the platform at 2am exactly; his feet were tired, but he felt awake and alive. He had only had two private clients that night, neither of which had wanted anything more than to touch him, to be touched _by_ him, and to just watch him dance. More than that, he had made over four-hundred dollars in tips.

After their chat in the change room, Mickey had seemingly disappeared, and despite glancing around for him occasionally, Ian hadn’t seen him since. He worried absently that the offer to drive him home had disappeared around the same time that Mickey’s idea of what Ian’s life actually _was_ did; hearing about it is one thing, but seeing it…

He pulled out his phone, and was going to text him when he saw he already had one waiting.

**Mickey: Will meet you in parking lot.**

Ian smiled at this, relieved that as of yet, Mickey still seemed to want to hang around.

He was leaning against his car when Ian stepped out into the night, the air much warmer than it had been at their first meeting the night before.

_Jesus_ , Ian thought, ruffling his hair. _Had it really only been a day?_

“You got game, Fire-crotch,” Mickey said suddenly, his lips pulling up as he stared at his shoes, hands in his suit pockets. Fuck he looked good…

“At least I didn’t have to touch any dicks tonight,” Ian admitted jokingly, though he felt somehow like he owed Mickey that truth. Mickey looked up at him, their eyes meeting in the dark, and Ian thought he looked relieved, but couldn’t be sure.

“Let’s go, then.” Mickey slid into the driver’s seat, and Ian smiled as Mickey leaned his left arm up on the window, and put his left hand on the wheel. “The fuck you smiling at?” Mickey asked, catching the look on his face.

“Did you have a good night?” Ian asked, trying to change the subject as his face went hot.

“Mmm,” Mickey shrugged, and headed out onto the streets.

“Mmm?” Ian figured that this could mean anything…

“About your time off,” Mickey continued, completely ignoring Ian’s prodding as he combed a hand through his greased-back hair. “You just have to ask.” Ian risked a peek in his direction, and found comfort in the way he said this; like only Ian could ask him for time off and get away with it.

Just then, his phone rang, the entire car reverberating with the sound as Iggy’s name popped up on the dash screen. Mickey hit the _accept_ button immediately.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, the softness in his voice turning at once to seriousness.

“Get here,” Iggy said, and he sounded out of breath. “At the docks.”

“I’m coming,” Mickey replied, and Ian shifted sideways in his seat as Mickey ripped a U-turn in the middle of an intersection, nearly hitting at least two other cars before peeling off in the direction of Lake Michigan.


	3. Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian gets a dark glimpse into Mickey's life, and he wonders if a Milkovich is worth it.  
> Mickey also gets a dark glimpse into Ian's past, and he wonders if his own happiness is worth the life of his porcelain boy...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is rated V for violence, as well as E for explicit!  
> Follow me on Twitter @WhatsaMattavich for excerpts and updates!

The light from the streetlamps and other cars blurred past at such a rate Ian worried they’d for sure get pulled over, which wouldn’t be ideal, considering that somewhere in the car was a Glock, and God knows what else.

Mickey hadn’t said a word in nearly ten minutes; he just eyed the road, swerving in and out of traffic like he had done this a thousand times before.

_Maybe he has_ , Ian thought, holding tighter to the grab handle.

Thirty seconds later they were at the shore, the vast expanse of Lake Michigan extending out before them. Ian could see the pier and the lights from the Ferris wheel in the distance as Mickey finally slammed on the brakes.

“Stay here,” he said, looking directly into his eyes; his tone was so direct and unflinching – those eyes so severe – that Ian had to bite his tongue to keep from arguing.

~

Mickey hated that Ian was with him – he didn’t like having distractions; he didn’t like having to worry about anyone else; and most of all, he didn’t want Ian to get a real glimpse into his life, at least not any more than he already had.

Getting out of the car, Mickey reached under the seat and pulled out the Glock, chambering a round before shoving it into the back of his suit. He glanced absently at Ian, and Mickey saw that the look on his face was calm, collected – much more so than anyone else’s would have been.

This porcelain boy who loved chaos…

“Just, stay here,” he said again, his voice demanding that Ian listen; he didn’t need to be his friend right now, but he _did_ need to be his boss. Ian simply nodded, but unbuckled his seatbelt, as if removing any obstacles should he suddenly need to run. Mickey grinned at that as he reached over and pulled out his phone, calling his brother.

“E dock,” Iggy said in answering, not bothering with formalities. “Slip 122”

Mickey hung up immediately, and shot one more look at Ian’s porcelain face before slamming the door and half-running to the gate.

The sound of the water lapping against the hulls of the boats that were moored in the harbor was disquieting – it wasn’t the type of sound Mickey was used to; something about it was too calming, too peaceful, and he mentally prepared himself for the opposite.

At Slip 122 he saw the yacht – _Zara_ – and Iggy waiting for him on the gangway.

“What happened?” Mickey asked, glancing over his brother to ensure he was in one piece.

“We’re light five kilos,” Iggy admitted, tossing a butt into the water. “According to Tommy, we were flush when they left port.”

Mickey glanced up at the yacht, eyeing the mid-section where lights burned brightly in the night; he knew without having to see that everyone was still in there – Tommy, the crew, the grunts, the heavyweight – nobody would be leaving that fucking boat while a Milkovich was still breathing.

“Idiots,” Mickey spat, laughing to himself as he did up the front button of his jacket – this _was_ business, after all.

Sliding through a set of glass doors, Mickey entered into a large living room, where four men and a woman – clearly members of the crew – were kneeling on the floor in matching navy shirts. They looked red-faced, and Mickey noticed some of them had scratches on their knees, elbows, and dirt on their faces.

“They try to run?” Mickey asked, grinning.

_Stupid._

“Tried,” Iggy replied, leaning casually back against the bar in the corner.

There were a handful of familiar faces in the room that Mickey knew; most of them the grunts that did the hard labour, but one was the heavyweight, who was in the far corner, double-strapped.

Mickey knelt down, coming face to face with the crew on the floor; he held out an open hand to his brother, who reached behind him without inquiring and produced a single kilo bag of coke, and handed it to Mickey. There was already a hole cut into the corner of it, so Mickey reached in a finger, taking a bit of the powder and rubbing it onto his gums.

“Is this fucking _flour_?” he snorted, raising his eyebrows in amusement as he tossed the bag aside, causing the white powder to puff outwards in a cloud.

“From the kitchen.” Iggy shrugged, a burst of air escaping his nose.

Every bag of coke was checked upon loading – it was protocol. Tommy monitored production, and ensured purity before shipping. Tommy had also never once been off in ten years, and Mickey knew based on nothing more than loyalty that he wasn’t about to start now. That meant that somewhere between Canada and Slip 122, some absolute fucking genius on this boat switched out five kilos. All logic pointed to the crew of course, but Mickey knew that unless you had the Milkovich name, you could never be fully trusted.

“Just tell us where the coke is.” Iggy sounded fed up, and rightly so – they didn’t have time for this shit. His brother cracked his own tattooed knuckles loudly – as if preparing them for an onslaught – which Mickey knew was simply tactics.

“Nobody’s leaving this boat,” Mickey sighed, standing, and rubbed his thumb harshly against his temple in annoyance. “Until I get those fucking bags...”

“We don’t know anything about that!” Mickey glanced down at the woman on the floor who had spoken, tears welling up in her eyes that caused her mascara to run down her face. “We just thought it was a normal charter…”

Mickey glanced between the faces on the floor – they all looked like trust-fund babies, or Ivy-League graduates, who were in all actuality probably way too stupid to hatch such a ridiculous plan. Mickey had the sudden, overwhelming feeling that the girl was probably telling the truth – years in this business gave you a sense for those kinds of things.

“Nah, they’d just snort the coke,” Mickey put in, motioning towards them. “They wouldn’t try to steal it. Let alone sell it.”

“Which means,” Iggy said, glancing up at the rest of the people in the room, who were all – unfortunately – under the employ of the Milkovich family.

“Which means Iggy,” Mickey interrupted. “That we have a thief.” Mickey eyed the crew on the floor, and was about to tell them they could go – with a little incentive to keep their mouths shut – when a sudden blur in his peripherals caused Mickey to glance up, just in time to see one of the grunts kick their heavyweight directly in the spine, causing him to fall forward. Mickey reached for his gun, right around the same time Iggy did, but not before that fucking traitor had slipped out his own.

Despite its silencer, Mickey heard the gun go off long before he actually felt anything; and when he _did_ feel something, it wasn’t even pain; it was just the warm trickle of blood dripping down his thigh. He honestly thought he’d went and pissed himself, until he looked down, and saw the blood starting to pool around a rip in his pants. Mickey wasn’t all together sure what else happened in the following two seconds, but two more shots rang out, and when he glanced back up, the piece of shit was on the floor – gun lying beside his shattered kneecap – and there was a hole in the wooden panel to the left of Iggy’s head.

“Fuck,” Mickey said simply, sitting down hard onto the floor, the muscle in his leg suddenly giving way.

“You motherfucker,” Iggy hissed, walking directly over and kicking the traitor in the ribs.

The heavyweight stood, regaining his composure as he grabbed the gun from off the floor before anyone else in the room had any brilliant ideas.

Tommy appeared suddenly then from the lower decks, five bags of what Mickey assumed was the _actual_ coke stacked high in his hands.“Found these in a bedroom downstairs,” he put in, not at all phased by the blood pooling on the floor under the shattered knee as he stepped over it, like a piece of trash in the street – which at this point, he may as well have been.

“Jesus…” someone exclaimed suddenly, and they all turned as Ian came through the doors, his face a little paler than normal, which Mickey hadn’t thought was possible. The heavyweight raised the gun at the sudden appearance of this stranger, causing Ian to stop abruptly, his hands coming up slightly as if he were about to be arrested.

“He’s fine!” Mickey yelled, waving an errant hand in his direction, and the heavyweight re-holstered.

All at once, and without any reasoning Mickey could fathom, Ian was beside him on the floor.

“Fuck Mickey, did you get shot!?” He sounded worried, but not the least bit surprised.

“Yea, I fuckin’ got shot,” Mickey exclaimed, the sarcasm biting hard into his tone. Ian leaned over him then, his hands fluttering over Mickey’s thigh as if assessing the damage; he put his hands into the tear in Mickey’s pants and pulled harshly, causing them to rip open further, the edges of his boxer briefs coming into view. Ian glanced around the room quickly, and motioned to Iggy to move as he stood, reaching into the bar behind him and grabbing a bottle of vodka.

“This is gunna hurt,” he said simply, eyeing Mickey with raised eyebrows, as if apologizing in advance. Mickey nodded, and bit hard into his lip as Ian poured it over the wound.

“Fuuuck!” Ian pulled his hoodie off, wrapping it around Mickey’s thigh and tying it tightly into a knot.

“You’re alright,” he said absently, smiling up at Mickey in reassurance, though the smile seemed forced. “Just grazed the muscle.”

“That doctor teach you some shit in that private room, Fire-crotch?” Mickey tried to joke, more or less trying to distract himself from the pain that was beginning to sink in at the sudden tightness of Ian’s bandage.

“No, I was in officer’s training a while back…”

“Hence the other stupid tattoo.”

“What the fuck is he doing here?” Iggy asked suddenly, and the poison in his voice was lost on no-one. Mickey looked at his brother, and for once, didn’t actually know what to say; he was right of course, Ian _shouldn’t_ have been there.

“He needs stitches,” Ian put in, with a rather large amount of authority as he glanced around the room. Mickey noticed the way he eyed the man on the floor, the guns, the coke; and despite his usually calm demeanor, it seemed to Mickey that there _were_ in fact some things that could get to the porcelain boy.

~

“Make yourself useful then,” Iggy said, his eyes throwing daggers into Ian’s. “Take him back to his place.” Despite the very large part of him that wanted very much to not be involved at all anymore, Ian wouldn’t just leave Mickey – not like this.

“Where does he live?”

“I’m not dead numb nuts,” Mickey spat, hobbling up to his feet. “I’ll give you fucking directions.” Mickey dug around in his pocket and pulled out the key fob, handing it to Ian. “You know how to fucking drive, right?”

Ian rolled his eyes, and despite the adrenaline coursing through his veins, he was suddenly excited at the prospect of driving Mickey’s car – of being in control of the one thing that was entirely Mickey’s.

“I’ll send the Doc over,” Iggy put in, pushing his foot into the shattered kneecap, causing its owner to scream from between closed teeth. “And I’ll take care of this.”

Ian was used to chaos, sure, but not so much the violence – not _this_ level of violence.

Hitching Mickey’s arm over his shoulder, he helped him out the door and back down the gangway.

“Why didn’t you stay in the car?” Mickey asked abruptly as soon as they were out of sight, and Ian was surprised at the anger in his voice. “I told you to stay in the car…”

“I heard the shots.” Ian tried not to convey the sudden worry he had felt at the sound, let alone the fear. He glanced around, wondering if anyone else had heard...

“Did you hop the fucking gate?” Mickey inquired, and a small smile pulled up the corner of his lips despite the blood that was beginning to soak through Ian’s sweater. Ian laughed.

“You think that’s the first time I’ve illegally hopped a fence covered in barbed wire?” he joked, and was suddenly glad it was just the two of them.

“Like I said,” Mickey put in, sliding a cigarette between his shaking lips. “You’re full of surprises.”

Once he had maneuvered Mickey into the passenger seat, Ian ran quickly around to the other side, sliding in and starting the car in one swift motion. Even though Mickey was beside him, slowly bleeding out, Ian could feel that smile play on the edges of his own lips as he felt the vibrations in his hands, just like the one that was constantly on the edge of Mickey’s; at least now, he understood why.

“You wreck my car and I’ll cut your fucking tongue out,” Mickey stated simply, buckling his seatbelt in the most obviously sarcastic way possible, like someone didn’t just try to kill him, but Ian’s driving just might. Ian flipped him the bird, but backed out slowly, easing his way into it before pulling out onto the open roads.

“Smooth ride,” he said – trying to be lighthearted – and despite the situation, he wondered absently if Mickey was, too. Ian risked a glance in his direction; his black hair was falling over his forehead in complete disarray, and there was a sheen of sweat on his face that made him look pale. It was nice seeing him like that, Ian thought – not hurt, but just, flustered.

“You _can_ go over the speed limit...”

“Oh you want us to get pulled over right now, Mickey?” Ian spat, suddenly annoyed at his passenger’s lack of regard for anything pertaining to the law, especially with blood beginning to puddle on the leather. Mickey smiled though, his blue eyes flashing in that way that made Ian’s heart beat just a little bit faster.

“Take the next left, Roger Spikey,” Mickey sighed, his eyes darkening as if he were suddenly quite tired.

“Gallagher.” Ian pressed on the gas, not taking his eyes from the road. “It’s Ian Gallagher.”

Mickey’s apartment wasn’t all that far from his own, maybe only twelve blocks away. It was an older building that didn’t look like much from the outside, but if Ian had any questions about Mickey’s wealth, they were answered when he opened the door and helped Mickey walk through the dark marble and glass lobby, glancing around to ensure nobody saw them and that no blood stained the antique wooden floors.

“Where’s the elevator?” Ian inquired, his voice straining a little as he held up most of Mickey’s weight; despite his smaller build, Mickey was clearly all muscle – he was fucking heavy.

“Don’t have one.” Mickey bit his lip, obviously entertained at the annoyance in Ian’s face, and he tried his best to stand on his own, clearly not wanting to seem like a burden as they made their way up the stairs to the top floor, which was – luckily – only the fourth story, and also entirely Mickey’s penthouse suite.

The doctor was already waiting inside when they came through the door; he was standing at the sink, washing his hands and forearms thoroughly. Ian did a double take, his heart at once hammering in his chest as he saw the familiar face staring back at them.

“Ned?” he said suddenly, nearly dropping Mickey onto the floor. Mickey glanced up at him, then over to the doctor, who simply smiled at the inexplicable coincidence that found them together once again.

“Well if it isn’t the Ginger Snap.”

“You know each other?” Mickey sounded genuinely surprised, and his face contorted into a look of suspicion. Ian ignored that question completely – trying not to remember their shared history – and half-carried Mickey to the kitchen, where Ned had already set up a table, complete with white lights, tools, and apparently anything else he may possibly need.

Ian wondered again just how big the Milkovich operation was…

“We used to fuck,” Ned admitted suddenly, as if it wasn’t that big of a deal; but it was now – it _really_ fucking was – to Ian at least; he had only been a child at the time…

To Ian’s annoyance, Ned grinned to himself – as if remembering certain things that Ian himself would rather forget – before he removed the blood-soaked hoodie and cut open Mickey’s pants. The look on Mickey’s face was one Ian had never seen before, and he tried to liken it to something close to jealousy, or maybe anger, but he couldn’t be sure.

“It was a long time ago,” Ian put in, wanting suddenly to reassure both himself and Mickey. “His son dated my sister for a while…”

“Yea well his son,” Mickey interrupted, biting hard into his lip as Ned slid on a glove and poured something like iodine onto the wound. “Used to run cars for us, before he up and disappeared.”

The coincidence brought Ian up short; he chewed absently at the inside of his lip as he realized how inextricably tied to Mickey and the Milkoviches he had been since the beginning; he had just never known it.

“It’s just a muscle tear,” Ned said then, reiterating Ian’s assessment from earlier. “Couple stitches and you’ll be fine.”

At the sound of Ned’s voice in that instant, it was suddenly as if someone flipped a switch inside of Ian; he realized all at once that Ned was actually there in front of him, and the thought made Ian’s darkness come racing forward as his stomach twisted with nausea. It was the sudden colliding of two worlds – two worlds he had promised would never meet; but here he was, standing there, watching Ned from his past speak to the Mickey of his present like they probably had a thousand times before, and it was like a slap to the face. There was a sudden anxiety that the perception they both had of him was about to shift drastically in this single moment: Ned, because the last time he had seen Ian was when Ian was still in school, when he was _normal_ , and he still had dreams of being an officer; and now here he was, further away from that dream and that life than he had ever been. And Mickey – Mickey because he suddenly had a glimpse into the past Ian wanted to forget, like a small window was opening into his soul, and he was altogether afraid that Mickey wouldn’t like what he found.

“I should probably go,” Ian said suddenly, feeling at once like if he stayed, that dam in his head just might break. Mickey glanced up at him, and although his eyes said _no, I need you to stay_ , what came out was:

“Take my car. Text me when you’re home.”

Ian nodded, and tried not to let the darkness cross that most dangerous of thresholds as he headed quickly down the stairs, taking them two at a time before he was back out in the night.

Back in his apartment, Ian stripped his clothes off, feeling the sudden need to be free of any confinements. Throwing them into the hamper by his dresser, he saw his jeans had spots of blood on them where Mickey’s leg had rubbed against his own as he had held him. Since the first moment Mickey had entered the club, Ian had imagined them with their arms around each other – of being that close – but only out of raw physical attraction, and not like…this.

He realized absently that he was shaking, the adrenaline finally wearing off as the reality of the last hour sank slowly into his bones. Mickey had been fucking _shot_ – could have been killed – and it all seemed so easy to them, as if it were nothing.

_How the fuck did I get here?_ Ian thought again, sitting down hard on the edge of his bed. Putting his face into his hands, he breathed loudly, purposefully, his naked body trembling as it expanded with each breath. As he watched the hair on his thighs shift slightly at his exhaling, he remembered absently that he was supposed to message Mickey. He grabbed his phone, staring at his text from earlier in the night.

**Mickey: Will meet you in parking lot.**

Ian stared at the flashing icon, wondering suddenly if he should even message Mickey at all. The sudden appearance of Ned had made him realize all at once that this wasn’t him – just like back then, up in those expensive hotel rooms – this wasn’t the life he wanted for himself. Even if Mickey had graced him with something unexpected and intense, he saw now just how far Mickey’s own idea of chaos went beyond his own, and Ian wasn’t altogether sure he could live with that. But in the back of his mind was also the knowledge that nobody just walked away from this life…

He was about to toss his phone aside, done weighing out the lack of options he truly had, when a new, more prevalent thought overtook him, casting a brilliant light over everything he had been considering: that it was Mickey and Mickey alone who could protect him now. No, he knew he could never just walk away on his own, but with Mickey, he had a way out – he had a chance. More than that, he felt safe when he was with him, as if a person like Ned would never dare try to touch him – to use him – ever again; like with Mickey’s help, he could be the person he wanted to be.

Suddenly the darkness receded, and with an abrupt longing just to hear Mickey’s voice, he hit the _call_ button, simply wanting to be sure of him.

“Hello?” Mickey answered, his voice soft, quiet, and slightly higher pitched than usual.

“Are you okay?” Ian asked, and found the worry he hadn’t realized was there was overwhelming. He rubbed absently at his eyes, closing them to the thoughts of the night.

“Yea, I’m fine Fire-crotch.” Something about the way Mickey said it caused Ian to laugh, but it came out more like a sobbing breath.

Ian also hadn’t realized how scared he’d been at the idea of something in his brain snapping at the scenes of violence, or the reappearance of his past; but Mickey at least was sure of him.

“Okay,” Ian sighed, rubbing his hand through his hair. “I uh, just wanted to make sure. You really know how to make a first impression…”

There was a silence on the phone for a moment, and it seemed to Ian to drag on forever.

“Are _you_ okay?” Mickey asked suddenly, and the softness in his voice took Ian by surprise; he had been expecting the loudmouth, South Side piece of trash that had had him from the get go, and the heat inside of him rose as he found comfort in the sudden gentleness that came from the last person he had ever expected it to.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, suddenly wanting to tell Mickey nothing but the truth. “I’m worried I’m gunna break.”

“Break?”

“My mind,” Ian sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Into a thousand little pieces that can’t ever be glued back together.”

Mickey’s breath was coming hard from the other end of the phone, and Ian honestly thought for a second that he had fallen asleep.

“I won’t let that happen,” Mickey replied finally, quietly, and sighed into the phone. Ian heard him sniff loudly, once, twice. 

“You might not be able to stop it.”

“Well then,” Mickey continued, his voice reaching an even higher pitch. “I’ll be there to pick up the pieces.” Mickey chuckled quietly to himself, sleepily, as if he found sudden humour in the image. “Like little pieces of glass…”

“Are you _high_!?” Ian asked abruptly, finding a sudden familiarity in Mickey’s lilted speech. Despite the feelings inside him, Ian grinned widely, the thought giving him unexpected pleasure.

“Doc gave me pills,” Mickey admitted, humming something inaudible to himself. “I took one more than I was supposed to…” Mickey laughed loudly, the sudden sound in Ian’s ear like music.

“So you won’t remember any of this?” Ian’s mood fell just the littlest bit at the thought, but maybe it was for the best that Mickey wouldn’t know the depths of his own darkness or how he purposefully searched him out for comfort.

“Oh, I’ll never forget thisss.” He hissed the final S as if he were a snake, letting it go on for a second too long, and Ian pressed his lips together to keep from bursting. He hated how cute it was.

“Well I should let you go…”

“No no,” Mickey interrupted, and Ian could hear him shuffling around, as if looking for food. “Tell me why your mind will break into tiny pieces.” Ian snorted at the innocence of the question; he wasn’t altogether sure he should tell him, but he supposed if there was ever going to be a time, it would be now, when Mickey couldn’t think too long or hard about it.

“I’m bipolar,” Ian confessed simply, and went quiet, waiting to see if Mickey would even grasp the severity of the concept.

“Hmm.” Mickey bit into something crunchy, huffing loudly as he clearly fell back onto his couch. “Are you happy _now_?” he asked, and his little voice – usually so full of authority and sarcasm – made Ian’s heart flutter.

“Yea, Mick,” Ian admitted, being completely honest. “I’m happy.” And it was the truth; despite his moment of doubt, Ian realized that he _was_ happy – he was happy talking to Mickey.

The phone went dead silent again, and nothing but breath was shared between them for a while.

“I hate that you were there,” Mickey said eventually, and moaned a little in what sounded like pleasure; the sound sent shivers up Ian’s spine, and he bit his lip to keep from asking. “I don’t like distractions, porcelain boy.”

_Porcelain boy?_ Ian thought, his brows furrowing in confused amusement. The fact that Mickey thought of him as a distraction didn’t surprise him though, because clearly, Mickey had the same effect on him.

Ian wasn’t altogether sure if that was a good thing.

“ _Do_ I distract you?” he asked, his voice going softer than he had meant it to.

_Fuck, I’m flirting with him…_

Mickey made a snorting noise, and Ian could hear him rubbing at the scruff of his face.

“You know exactly what you do…” Ian smiled to himself at this, feeling the blood rush suddenly through him to places he really wanted to bring up to Mickey – but not like this, even if he got the impression that Mickey wouldn’t altogether mind.

“What I’m going to do now,” Ian put in, needing to disengage himself from the situation before he asked Mickey what he was wearing. “Is let you get some sleep.”

Mickey breathed heavily from the other end, and simply made a _mmm_ noise, before the phone suddenly went dead, and Ian glanced at the screen, laughing alone in the dark.

Ian lay back on the bed and grabbed his personal phone from off the nightstand; with a few taps, he brought up the picture of Mickey, and with Mickey’s voice still in his ear, and the need for some sort of release, he reached down, pulling softly on his dick until the echoes of Mickey made him hard, and he jacked off alone in his room, cumming harder than he had in a long, long time.

Iggy showed up at his apartment on Sunday afternoon, his face sunken and tired. Ian wondered absently just how late he had been out _taking care of things_ , and what that even entailed.

“I need Mick’s keys,” he said, as Ian opened the door to let him in; but Iggy stayed put in the hallway. Ian rolled his eyes, reaching onto the side table and handing him the fob.

“Here.”

Iggy was about to head back the way he’d come without another word, when something clearly got the better of him, and he turned, looking Ian in the eye.

“My brother doesn’t need any distractions,” he said, scratching the side of his mouth. “If something happens to him because of you, I…”

“It won’t,” Ian interrupted, getting his back up at yet another accusation of being a distraction, which was starting to annoy him – he could be more than that; he could be more than that for Mickey.

Iggy stared at him, nodding once before turning and heading back to the elevator.

A text came through his work phone an hour later, and Ian’s chest tightened at the sound of the vibration before he realized it was a message from Security, informing him that on Wednesday night, he had an escort job downtown, and he was to be downstairs, dressed business-casual, for a 7pm pick up.

Despite wanting to, Ian didn’t text Mickey; it had nothing to do with Iggy’s unexpected visit, but everything to do with their phone call; not only had Mickey been fucked out of his tree, but in a way, so had Ian – his sudden need for reassurance making him open up in a way he was starting to regret, because as of now, Mickey had seemingly gone silent, which only sent a new wave of anxiety through his veins, as if it were a confirmation of the fact that with his disease, he would never quite be good enough.

He set the phone down, wanting suddenly to be busy doing _something_ – _anything_. Without thinking, he grabbed his backpack and keys off the counter, leaving his phone as he headed out to wander the streets of Chicago. He needed to buy something nice that was business-casual, and doing that would at least keep him from focusing on the shit-show he believed was himself.

Ian didn’t hear from Mickey until Wednesday, when he was sitting down to some half-ass dinner he had made and probably wouldn’t eat, due to the nerves he was feeling at his first “date” in a few hours. When he saw Mickey’s name, his heart beat just a little faster.

**Mickey: Good luck tonight.**

That was it. Ian frowned at the screen, and pushed his plate of food across the counter.

_I should never have fucking told him,_ he thought to himself, tossing his phone onto the granite with a rather hard _thunk_ before heading into the bathroom to get clean.

~

Mickey stared at the screen, waiting to see those little bubbles appear to let him know that Ian was typing, but they never came.

An hour passed – an hour closer to Ian’s date – and Mickey felt the heat in his cheeks rise as he paced around the apartment, hobbling from one chair to another, smoking two cigarettes for every beer he could drink. Despite Ian’s doubts on the phone, Mickey remembered everything Ian had said to him; more than that, he remembered everything _he_ had said to Ian. Mickey pressed his palms against his eyes in embarrassment, recalling his utter lack of anything even close to control. Ian had clearly been trying to tell him something real, and Mickey felt a tug at his heart as he thought about it. The fact that Ian obviously trusted him after such a short amount of time made him feel like he was needed for the first time in his life by someone who didn’t carry the Milkovich name, but a part of him also hated that Ian felt like he had to tell him about being bipolar in the first place, like that was somehow the worst thing someone with a life like Mickey’s could imagine...

“Fuck,” he hissed to himself, glancing again at his phone.

Nothing.

_I should never have texted him at all_ , he thought. _I should have fucking left it_. A part of him wanted to leave it – wanted to let Ian fade away like the scar forming on his thigh that would forever remind him of that night; but it wasn’t because of Ian or who he was – it was because of himself. This sudden, inexplicable connection to him made no sense, and Mickey didn’t like when things made no sense. All at once, he found he was more worried about being able to protect Ian in this life than himself or his family, and Mickey couldn’t risk that distraction. But despite how he tried, he couldn’t just let him go; Ian had made him feel things over the past five days that Mickey had never felt before in his life. Sure, he had never had a boyfriend, had never been in love – not that he was in love now – but there was something new that he couldn’t figure out; he thought maybe it was something corny like hope – like for the first time, there was a possibility of something _more_. Of course, Mickey was used to more, but only in the ways that didn’t matter: more money, more _things_ , but Mickey didn’t just want _things_ , he wanted _something_ , or _someone_ – someone that could make him feel like maybe, there was a life beyond the one he thought he deserved. The problem was that Ian _didn’t_ deserve this life; so Mickey looked at the screen one more time, regretting the message that was only a half-ass attempt to drag his porcelain boy back into his chaos, just so he could have something that gave him peace instead, and deleted it.

Pulling out a bag of weed, Mickey rolled a couple joints, glancing at the clock as it edged closer to 7pm. When he was done, he grabbed a six-pack from the fridge, took his joints, and sat promptly down on the couch, preparing himself for an evening of doing whatever the fuck he had to to not think about Ian and his date.

On Friday, Mickey opened his closet; Iggy had stopped by a few times throughout the week, bringing him food, giving him updates on the status of business, and informing him that Pops wanted a meeting on Friday night. Mickey knew he would see Ian, and despite his wanting to distance himself, he still pulled out his favourite suit – a grey one – with a white shirt, brown belt, and brown shoes. He changed his bandage before slipping on the pants, ensuring he slapped on an extra layer of gauze so nothing leaked through.

The Audi was freshly cleaned and smelled like new; Mickey eyed the passenger seat, ensuring there were no stains or hints of blood left behind. When he was satisfied, he gripped the wheel, rubbing his hands absently over the leather as if he could feel the ghost of Ian’s hands before he ripped out onto the streets, rejoicing in some sort of familiar comfort that had sorely been lacking for nearly a week.

Ian was dancing below, his houndstooth shorts for Saturdays replaced with the pair of black ones for Fridays, which had matching black suspenders. Unlike the others, Ian only had one strap of the suspenders up, crossed diagonally over his body to the opposite shoulder; the other hung loose at his hip, swinging back and forth as he moved to the music. Mickey tried not to watch him – tried not to focus on the body that had been on his mind for days and nights, giving him release when the urge took him.

“It’s been taken care of,” his father said suddenly, tearing Mickey from his reverie. Mickey knew what he meant of course, but didn’t want to know the details.

“I’m fine, Pops,” Mickey sighed, scratching at his eyebrow.

“No, you’re fuckin’ lucky.” Mickey just nodded, knowing he was right.

“I’ll be up in a second…”

“No,” Terry interrupted, sliding a cigar between his lips. “Don’t worry about it tonight. Take it easy. Keep an eye on things.”

Mickey glanced down over the main club below, his eyes scanning the writhing crowd as if looking for the one person he knew wasn’t there. Then, nodding to nobody in particular, he turned, heading off to do business.

Sergei waved him down from the balcony a few hours later, Ian glancing up at the exact same moment and catching his eye; but this time he didn’t dance for him, he just watched Mickey, a look crossing his face that turned him suddenly to a child, wondering what exactly he’d done so wrong. Mickey squeezed his hands into fists, trying not to look too long at him as he made his way down.

“Who?” Mickey asked, glancing around the room.

“This guy.” Sergei motioned to a rather large man in his mid-forties standing off in the corner; Mickey had never seen him before.

“Which dancer?” Mickey inquired, but already knew the answer – it was impossible not to. When he looked around the room, only one man held his attention.

“Curtis.”

Mickey nodded, bit his lip as he pulled out his keys. Rooms one and two were already occupied, so he gave Sergei the key to three, leaving the room quickly before Ian could really see him.

Mickey again stood on the balcony, eyeing a door on the other side of the club as he smoked his fourth cigarette; it had only been twenty minutes, and his lip was already half-chewed to shit.

_Fuck this_ , he thought, wishing suddenly that he just didn’t care – he wanted so badly not. to fucking. _care_.

Glancing back down over the club, he tried to focus on different people – a woman in a black tank top and Chucks; a man in ill-fitting jeans and a blue v-neck; he wanted to be one of them – just a regular person on a Friday night, out with his friends…

A shift in light caught his eye suddenly and he glanced up – the red panic light outside room three had suddenly turned on, and before he knew it, Mickey was running.

~

Ian stepped back against the wall, his eye socket throbbing from the after-effects of a well-placed punch. He knew he could put up a good fight if he wanted to, but the sheer size of this client set his teeth on edge.

“Fuck,” the man spat, clearly pissed that Ian had rejected his offers to let him fuck him. The client stepped closer, and Ian shifted towards the door, wondering if he could make a run for it. He had pressed the panic button like Mickey told him to, but it felt like it was taking for-fucking-ever for someone to come.

As if on cue, the door burst open, and Mickey was suddenly there; he glanced over at Ian, and whatever he saw made his eyes widen and his ears pull back, the immediate anger on his face making Ian step back involuntarily, as if he himself were about to receive the onslaught.

Instead, Mickey was on the client in a heartbeat, his fist slamming so hard into his face that a loud thud reverberated throughout the room over the music, and the guy hit the floor like a ton of bricks. Mickey fell on top of him, straddling his chest as he grabbed a fistful of the guy’s collar, pulling his head up off the floor so that Mickey could punch him once, twice, three times in the face, blood beginning to seep out of both the guy’s eyebrow and Mickey’s pants where he’d clearly torn his stitches.

Ian stepped forward at the sight, but stopped abruptly as Mickey reached around and pulled out his Glock, chambering a round and pointing the muzzle directly between the client’s eyes.

“If you _ever_ , touch him again,” Mickey spat. “I’ll put a fucking bullet in your skull.” Ian was half-convinced by Mickey’s eerily calm tone that he was about to do it, when Sergei came busting through the door, another security guard directly behind him. They pulled Mickey up off the floor by his arms, and once he was standing, he ripped himself from their grip. “Take this piece of shit out of here,” he hissed, and watched intently with unblinking eyes as they dragged the now-unconscious client from the room.

Ian closed the door behind them. Mickey was pacing against the far wall, his reflection in the mirrors giving Ian a double sense of unease. Mickey was furious; he was chewing hard on his lip, rubbing furiously at his eyebrow with his left hand as his right swung wildly as he walked, his K finger still on the trigger.

“Mickey,” Ian said, harshly, reaching his hand out towards him; but Mickey didn’t stop. “Mickey!” He said it louder, and suddenly the pacing ceased.

Mickey looked up at him.

“What?” He sounded more tired than annoyed. Ian watched nervously as Mickey lifted his right hand, glancing at his bruising knuckles while the gun came dangerously close to his face.

“Give me the gun, Mickey.” Ian wasn’t asking. He stepped closer towards him. Mickey looked at the Glock in his hand, then back at Ian; he hesitated a moment, but eventually came forward, placing it into Ian’s hand with an exhale of breath that Ian thought was long overdue.

“You’re hurt,” Mickey said suddenly, realizing belatedly that Ian’s nose was dripping like a faucet. He moved in closer, reaching up and absently rubbing the blood from Ian’s face that Ian himself hadn’t known was even there. Ian almost flinched away at his touch, but didn’t, letting Mickey thumb the warm blood off his upper lip. It was surprisingly intimate, and Ian wished at once that there was more blood.

Mickey had – up until this point, Ian thought – only exuded an air of toughness; he had never doubted that Mickey could back it up of course; he just never thought it would be for his sake, or to that degree.

As if realizing all at once how close they were, Mickey glanced up, his eyes suddenly meeting Ian’s; there was an unexpected intenseness there that made Ian lean subconsciously closer, as if just being nearer to Mickey meant he was safe. Mickey’s mouth opened slightly at the movement, and Ian could feel his breath hot on his neck. To Ian’s relief, Mickey didn’t move away, but shifted a hair closer, as if Mickey’s subconscious was answering his own.

Without warning, that feeling that had been there between them for a week multiplied itself exponentially.

Ian tossed the gun onto the couch without moving; he was at once aware of the need that was clawing its way into his belly, and his eyes went suddenly to Mickey’s face, searching every cell, asking that silent, most primal question. Mickey’s eyes – those beautiful eyes – moved automatically to Ian’s mouth with a quivering breath, and that was all the answer he needed. Ian grabbed the back of Mickey’s head, tilting it upwards as his mouth came down hard, open, onto his. In that moment, Ian was sure it was all he needed to survive. Mickey reached up in return, placing his hands on either side of Ian’s neck, keeping him firmly in place with his thumbs on his jaw as if Ian’s own breath would keep his heart beating.

Ian’s whole hand cupped the back of Mickey’s head, and he rejoiced in the sensation of holding such a wild creature. Wrapping his free hand around Mickey’s waist, Ian pulled him in, feeling Mickey’s heart suddenly hammering against his own chest. Mickey’s mouth was warm, wet, willing, and Ian could taste the beer he had probably been nursing only a minute before he had come to him, mingled with the blood that ran from his own face. Something about the mixture made his stomach tighten, and he could feel the rest of the blood left inside him rushing down to his cock.

He kissed him harder. He needed him harder.

At once, his hands were on Mickey’s belt – Ian could feel with the grazing of his fingers that Mickey was as hard as he was, and he was glad of it. He unhooked the buckle, his tongue still in Mickey’s mouth as he ripped it out in one single motion, tossing it hard against the wall, cracking one of the mirrors.

Mickey pulled back at the sound, his breath coming hard and fast as he trailed his hands down Ian’s bare chest, sending Ian’s flesh into goose-bumps and making his nipples harden.

Mickey grabbed at the bottom of his own shirt and pulled it off, not bothering with the buttons as he tossed it and it landed in some of Ian’s blood on the floor. Ian leaned back slightly, wanting suddenly to do nothing more than look at him. Mickey was pale, Ian saw – almost as pale as himself – but his skin was smooth and nearly flawless – no freckles in sight, and only a handful scars; he was fit, but not in a chiseled-from-stone kind of way; the hair that dusted his wide arms and body was lighter than the black hair on his head, and it made him seem softer somehow.

Ian immediately wanted all of him.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, and he fucking meant it.

His hands were still at the zipper of Mickey’s pants, fumbling as he trembled; he couldn’t remember the last time he had been this nervous. Mickey glanced downwards then, like he wanted to watch, and Ian’s cock twitched at the thought. Their foreheads were pressed together – noses touching – and they both stared as Mickey’s pants finally hit the floor, his cock springing free.

“Fuck,” Ian exclaimed, the sight of it making his shorts wet with precum. This hair – the hair at the base of Mickey’s dick – matched the black hair on his head, which inexplicably made Ian smile.

This wasn’t going to be slow.

His eyes met Mickey’s again, and he kissed him hard once more before dragging his lips down his neck, across his chest, biting at his nipples and the hair below his navel before finally dropping to his knees in front of him and taking him into his hands. His dick was warm, solid, and was also wet with precum that was steadily forming at the tip.

“Shit,” Mickey sighed at his touch, his head falling backwards in a surprising innocence.

It was there on the floor, looking up at Mickey’s vulnerable face that Ian realized all at once that inside of him was a feeling entirely new to him – it was no longer the simple need for sex, like he was used to; it was an all-consuming need for Mickey, and Mickey alone.

~

Mickey watched as Ian took the head of his dick into his mouth, his blue-green eyes looking up at him as if he needed Mickey as much as Mickey felt he needed Ian. A sharp breath escaped from between his lips as Ian went to work, sliding his mouth all the way to Mickey’s balls, the warmness of him causing the muscles in his lower half to contract. It was so fucking hot.

He thrust gently, slowly, pushing into Ian’s throat as Ian pushed back onto him – he was fucking his mouth, and Mickey fucking loved it. Without thinking, Mickey reached down, placing a single hand on the top of Ian’s head, wanting suddenly just to feel him.

Ian made a small _mmm_ sound – as if approving of his touch – and it was so soft that it made Mickey glance abruptly away from Ian’s face, taking in the sight of him: his hair, messy and out of place; the freckles that dusted his body; the cock that was clearly hard inside his shorts; the small things that he was beginning to think he loved – not that he was sure he was _in_ love, was he? Or did he just love all the little things that made Ian, Ian.

Ian pulled off suddenly, sliding his tongue down the length of Mickey’s cock as he licked off his own spit; Mickey was sure he wouldn’t be able to last much longer. Absently, as if sensing this and not even realizing what he was doing, Ian stopped, bending his head slightly and kissing the bandage on Mickey’s thigh that was soaking through with blood. It was a gesture of such gentleness and vulnerability that it made Mickey eye him suddenly, as if his heart might burst if he had to wait another second. Grabbing a fistful of Ian’s hair, he forced him to stand and kiss him with those same lips, and Mickey could taste himself in Ian’s mouth – saltiness mixed with the iron taste of blood – and the sensation set him on fire.

Mickey reached down and slid his hand into the top of Ian’s shorts, grabbing his dick and pulling it out. Ian moaned a little at his touch, and he bit gently at the side of Mickey’s mouth. His cock was bigger than Mickey had expected, and the head was a shade of pink that almost matched its owner’s lips.

Somehow, his own dick got even harder, and he wanted all at once to be possessed.

“Fuck me,” Mickey whispered suddenly, smiling knowingly against Ian’s mouth. This time, it was Mickey who wasn’t asking. Ian pulled back, his eyes boring into Mickey’s with such an intense need that Mickey knew immediately that this wasn’t going to be slow.

“Turn around,” Ian demanded, his breath coming fast as he grabbed Mickey’s shoulder, quickly turning him away. Mickey leaned onto the back of the chair, grabbing the edges as Ian shoved his foot between his legs, violently spreading them further apart.

Mickey wanted to tell him to go slow, but somehow he knew he didn’t have to. He glanced back, his cock twitching as he watched Ian spit into his hand and rub it generously over his own dick without even bothering to push his shorts all the way down.

He needed it, _now_ , and Mickey knew it.

A small ‘ _uhh’_ escaped his mouth as he heard Ian spit into his hand again before gently rubbing it onto Mickey’s asshole, causing Mickey to reach down and grab his dick with his right hand and tug at it gently, the precum making him wetter than he thought he ever had been.

“Ready?” Ian asked, softly, and Mickey simply nodded in return.

Ian pressed his fingers against him, rubbing slowly in methodic circles at his opening so Mickey would relax just the smallest bit; when he finally did, Ian pushed in a single finger.

“Oh fuck,” Mickey whimpered, the small feeling of fullness making his hand move faster. Nothing had ever been in his ass before, and he wondered absently why it had taken so fucking long.

Ian probed in and out, slowly, feeling around inside of him for a moment before there was a sudden sensation of expansion, and Mickey knew Ian had slipped in another. He moved them steadily inside of him, his long fingers reaching his prostate and sending new waves of pleasure through Mickey’s abdomen that made his balls contract instantly.

“Do it now,” he said suddenly, not wanting to wait any longer, and Ian pulled his fingers out at once, grabbing the base of his cock and pressing it slowly in, a small bit at a time. At first the pressure was intense in a good way, but when it began to hurt, Mickey leaned forward, his body instinctively trying to avoid the pain. Ian grabbed hard onto Mickey’ hips, holding him in place, and Mickey was glad of it.

All at once, Ian exclaimed, “Fuuck Mickey,” rather vulnerably, his voice trembling, and Mickey knew by the sound and the fullness that he was all the way in. “You’re so fucking tight…”

Mickey let go of his dick and grasped the chair with both hands as Ian began to move faster within him, his hips slapping against Mickey’s ass with a sound and feeling that made Mickey’s clear string of precum drip onto the floor. Ian’s dick was pressing hard against his prostate, making Mickey’s muscles tighten even further, those growing stages of release building up inside of him; he was sure that if he put his hand on his dick now, he would cum; but he didn’t want to, not yet – he didn’t want Ian to know just how far over the edge he could send him.

As if sensing this, and not actually able to hold on much longer himself, Ian reached his right hand around and grabbed hold of Mickey’s cock, sliding his fist against him in rhythm to his thrusts.

“Oh fuck Ian,” Mickey whimpered, the saying of his name and the sudden tightness of Ian’s hand a mind-blowing combination that put him on the precipice of release. “I’m gunna cum,” he moaned, and he wasn’t even embarrassed at the short amount of time that had passed.

At his words, Ian arched suddenly against him, his left hand intertwining with Mickey’s on the back of the chair. His chest was slick with sweat against Mickey’s back, and his breath came fast and hot as he bit at his shoulders, at his neck, as if trying to consume him entirely. His thrusts went deeper and harder, and Mickey squeezed Ian’s fingers with his own as he felt the dam break

“Oh ffuuuck,” he cried, shaking violently, his chin pressing into his chest as he came, hard, all over Ian’s hand. At this, Ian’s voice reached a higher pitch, a few small sounds like _ungh, ungh_ escaping his lips as he suddenly pushed in hard, all the way, and Mickey felt Ian’s dick pulse inside him as the warmness of his cum filled him.

“Jesus, Mickey,” Ian cried, the entire weight of his body falling hard onto Mickey’s back, as if he had just given everything he had.

Ian stayed there for a minute, his cock still inside, their left hands intertwined, and Mickey wished silently that they could stay like that.

It was quiet for a moment, the sounds of heavy breathing somehow drowning out the beat from the base outside.

“Nobody’s ever fucked me before,” Mickey admitted through panting breaths, wanting to break the silence; then, through something close to instinct, he pulled Ian’s left hand up to his mouth and kissed it once, softly on the knuckles, causing Ian to stand, and look thoughtfully into his eyes.

“I was your first?” Ian asked, and the smile on his face was evident. Mickey just grinned and shrugged, wincing the smallest bit as Ian slid out, and his cum dripped out onto the floor.“That’s so fucking hot, Mickey,” he said quietly, watching it, before reaching out his fingers and touching Mickey’s opening. “ _You’re_ so fucking hot…” Pulling his fingers back, he put them into his mouth, tasting them both, and Mickey’s face went hot as he turned, feeling the slickness in his ass as he grabbed a hold of Ian’s waist, pulling him into him so that he could kiss him hard, one more time. Their cocks were softening, and the feel of them together made Mickey bite into Ian’s lip.

“Let me take you home,” Mickey whispered against his mouth, his own breath coming back hot into his face as it mingled with Ian’s. Ian closed his eyes, taking what Mickey thought was an unusually large, deep breath – as if he were smelling him – before he said,

“Okay,” and he smiled, as if content.

Mickey felt fucking euphoric as Ian watched him get dressed – his eyes never leaving his body – as if a small piece of something he hadn’t know was missing had found its way back to his soul. They were covered in each other’s blood, each other’s cum, and Mickey didn’t know which he found hotter.

Ian hitched his shorts up, tucking his dick back in as Mickey shoved his own underwear into his inner jacket pocket after using them to clean up whatever cum they could find.

They left the blood.

As Mickey headed for the door, Ian reached out suddenly, grabbing his arm and pulling him in; he stared down into his eyes, a smile playing on the edges of his lips as he raised his hand and pushed it through Mickey’s hair, slicking it back into place.

“Fuck you’re beautiful,” he said absently, and the quietness of it almost made Mickey hard again.

“Yea, well, you’re not so bad yourself, Gallagher.” Mickey pushed himself up on his tiptoes and kissed him once, twice, before turning abruptly and heading for the door.

To his surprise, Sergei was leaning on the other side of the doorjamb, a look on his face that made Mickey’s resolve harden into stone. Sergei glanced absently at Ian, clearly taking in the blood and the sweat before looking away.

“Make sure he’s barred,” Mickey said absently, referring to the client, and said nothing more. Sergei simply nodded and stood aside – it wasn’t his place to ask questions.

~

The atmosphere in the car on the ride home was different than it had been before; there was no tension now – no static that electrified their nerves – it was just quiet, calm, comforting; and despite it being only just midnight, the tiredness in Ian’s bones caused him to shrink down into his seat, leaning his head against the headrest. It was a clear night, and rather warm for late April, so Ian put down the window the slightest bit, feeling the cooler night air brush across his face.

Mickey sniffed loudly, again breaking their silence, which caused Ian to turn his head and look at him; not for the first time - nor for the last, he imagined – Ian grinned to himself as he watched Mickey drive.

“I’m guessing Ned’s gunna have to come back and stitch you up?” he inquired absently, eyeing the pants of Mickey’s grey suit that were definitely ruined.

“No,” Mickey said simply, pressing harder on the gas. “Ned doesn’t work for us anymore.” At that, Ian turned towards him, his whole body shifting in his seat.

“Why?” he asked, but a part of him already knew. Of course he knew. He had been right – Mickey wouldn’t let a person like Ned ever hurt him again.

Mickey said nothing, just steered in the direction of home.

As if it was something he should have been doing all along, like Mickey’s body had simply been waiting for his, Ian reached out then, taking hold of the right hand that always sat idle in Mickey’s lap. Mickey glanced at him, but didn’t try to pull away; it was as if they both recognized that they simply needed to be sure of each other – to be sure of _something_ – in this newfound chaos they shared.

Ian glanced back out the window, a fullness growing inside of him that made him smile at the city lights as they passed by like strangers in the night.


	4. Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are in the air, and Ian and Mickey have to figure out how to navigate around newfound emotions and gestures they're not really used to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a fun chapter, though you could also say the calm before the storm. It's soft, quiet, and revealing. Also assume from here on in that everything is rated E for Explicit! Thanks again to everyone who has been commenting and reading! It means so much! If you want updates or excerpts from the next chapters, feel free to follow me on Twitter @WhatsaMattavich !!

They sat idling outside Ian’s apartment; after the Ned conversation – if it could be called a conversation – Mickey hadn’t said anything. Ian didn’t want to push his luck, so instead he wondered absently if he should bring up the fact that Mickey had just let him fuck him in a private room at his father’s club, or if maybe it meant anything more to him than just…sex.

“Wanna talk about it?” Ian broached, rubbing his thumb absently over Mickey’s bruising knuckles; his hands were so small, and it made Ian smile a bit.

“About what?” Mickey squeezed Ian’s hand quickly before letting it go. He scratched at his eyebrow. “About Ned?”

“No, not Ned.” Ian flipped down the mirror, the sight of Mickey’s knuckles making him want suddenly to look at the state his own face. “Well, about Ned, too, but more so about…you know.” His eye was going black on the brow bone, and there was still a bit of blood crusted under his nose that Mickey’s lips and tongue hadn’t quite reached.

“He was a creep,” Mickey said simply, shifting slightly in his seat. “Plus you fucked him, so…”

“I’ve been with a lot of guys, Mick.” Ian flipped the mirror back up, his face sinking and going hot as he admitted it. He wasn’t proud but, there it was.

“You were a kid,” Mickey spat, “and he’s like, a grandpa.” Ian snorted at that, but found no argument; he didn’t remember telling Mickey the details, and figured that he must have asked Ned after he had left the apartment.

Ian liked that Mickey had done that – and had done that for him. 

“You don’t have to protect me,” he said then, quietly, though he didn’t altogether mean it. “I _am_ South Side.”

“ _You’re South Side_!?” Mickey turned in his seat, clearly surprised, and the look on his face made Ian smile wider.

Had he not told him that before?

“Yea man, born and raised.”

“Makes so much sense now,” Mickey admitted, shaking his head as he looked off into the distance, as if remembering all the things about Ian that definitely qualified him for the title.

“Your dad is like fucking royalty down there.”

“Wait,” Mickey said, a sudden thought coming to him as he leaned back against his door. “Where’s your house?” Ian pressed his lips together, considering whether _this_ was information he wanted to divulge, even to Mickey. Mickey glanced at him when he hesitated, and the corner of his lips pulled up slightly. “Good strategy.” 

“You’re the one who told me not to share my shit…”

“Hey,” Mickey interrupted, rolling down his window to let a breeze in. “I’m not complaining Fire-crotch.” Ian knew where Mickey’s house was on the South Side – the one he had grown up in – and the fact that it was close to where he himself had lived made him suddenly curious to see Mickey’s reaction.

_Fuck it._

“South Wallace,” he admitted suddenly, not regretting it as Mickey’s eyebrows shot up, and he snorted.

“That’s like, what, a couple blocks from where we lived?”

It was true of course – the Milkovich house was just around the corner from the Gallagher’s, and kind of a big deal on the South Side – it was where Terry Milkovich lived before making it big in the city. It was a kind of rite of passage for South Side kids to knock on the door in summer, and ask for a tour from the current owner, an old bat with a Polish name Ian forgot. It was a small house; shabby, a bit rundown, but to them it may as well have been the fucking Ritz.

“Yea,” Ian admitted, unbuckling his seatbelt. “You were all fairly young though I think when you moved into the city?”

“I was seven.” Mickey sniffed loudly, like he was prone to doing in silences, and Ian thought he almost sounded a bit sad at the fact that they had left, despite the life he lived now, and he understood – being South Side was a badge of honour.

“I’m sure we’ve crossed paths before, Milkovich,” Ian said, and wondered if it were true. He opened the door, and was about to step out when he felt Mickey’s hand on the back of his collar, pulling him back in. Ian turned, just in time for Mickey’s lips to meet his own. It was brief, soft, and immaculate. Ian smiled against his mouth.

“Nobody can know,” Mickey put in then, pushing a hand through his hair as he brought up the fucking on his own without Ian having to. “I mean everybody fucks the dancers and escorts but…” He trailed off, looking out the windshield.

“This isn’t just fucking.” It wasn’t a question. Ian knew it wasn’t just fucking – it was something more; something neither of them had a name for, but whatever it was, it was there, and it was real.

“I’ll text you,” Mickey said in answering, not broaching the subject further, and his lips pulled up the smallest bit before Ian stepped out and closed the door behind him.

~

Mickey got about seven blocks when his phone rang, Iggy’s name popping up on the screen. Mickey didn’t have to think too long or hard about why his brother would be calling.

“Yea?”

“The fuck happened?” his brother asked, laughing. “There’s blood all over the place.” Mickey rubbed at his eyebrow.

“Guy got handsy, hit a dancer.” It was the truth, no lie.

“Are you with him?” Mickey knew who he meant. “The fuckin’ red-head?”

“Fuck no,” Mickey spat, and that also was the truth. “Dropped him off at home, he was pretty fucked up.”

“Oh I bet he was...”

“Shut up.” Despite the implications, he laughed, lipping a cigarette as he rolled the window up to a crack.

“Just don’t be stupid, Mickey,” Iggy said then, in a softer voice than Mickey was used to hearing, and he knew that he worried. “If dad finds out…”

“He won’t.” That wasn’t a promise Mickey could altogether make, because he couldn’t know for sure that he wouldn’t, but it wasn’t going to be on his account, and he knew it wouldn’t be on Iggy’s, either.

Milkovich siblings always put each other first.

“Why _this_ kid?” Iggy asked then, blowing smoke loudly through his mouth from the other end of the phone. “You’ve never cared before.” Mickey resented this statement a bit; he _had_ cared; he had _always_ cared – secretly, quietly – he had just never found someone who was worth it.

“When I figure it out, Ig,” Mickey said, tossing the butt before turning into his garage. “You’ll be the first to know.”

“Yea well, that’s not why I called anyways.” Mickey turned off the engine, rubbing absently at his scruff.

“What’s up?”

“We have a gun run,” Iggy confessed, coughing from the other end as he choked on some smoke. “Three weeks, in New York.” It had been a minute since they had gone to the Big Apple, but after doing the math in his head, Mickey figured that yea, it was about that time again.

“Alright.”

With that, he hung up, sitting for a quiet moment in his parking space, letting the events of the night sink into his soul. He rubbed his knuckles absently, remembering the feel of brow-bone against them, and then Ian’s touch right after – his touch on all parts of him, so much softer – and how he wanted it all again.

Upstairs, Mickey tossed his key onto the counter, grabbing a beer from the fridge before heading to the bathroom to get clean – he at least wanted to shower before the doctor showed up to re-stitch Lishman’s work, because he could still feel some of Ian’s cum on his ass, drying between the hairs; the sensation made him smile to himself as the heat rushed into his cheeks; he felt dirty – not in a way that disgusted him, but in a way that made him hold his head a little higher, like he took pride in the fact he had let go of control for once in his life, and he had enjoyed it.

He peeled off his suit – being extra careful of the drying blood on his thigh – and tossed it onto the floor. Glancing at his nakedness in the mirror, he felt suddenly as if the body that stood looking back at him wasn’t his own, like it had been changed somehow – changed by the touch and the release of another. Mickey half-turned away, looking back at his reflection; there were bite marks on his shoulders where Ian had tried to swallow him whole, and Mickey fingered them, feeling the welts as if they were a part of him now, and would always be. The sensation set his flesh on fire, and his hairs stood on end as the echoes of Ian inside him came rushing back, his dick at once getting hard.

~

Ian spent the entire night touching his skin; feeling his chest where it had rubbed against Mickey’s back; gently tracing his lips where he could still faintly taste Mickey’s cum and his own blood; scratching absently at his hip bones that made such an incredible sound as they thrust against him. Never had the touch of a body remained with him for so long – in such magnificent ways – and Ian reveled in the new sensation of not just wanting, but needing; and he let it wrap around him like a warm blanket – smothering the anxieties that usually wracked him and falling asleep in the darkness as soon as his head hit the pillow.

Mickey text him in the morning to tell him he had the night off, but that his father wanted them both at the club for a meeting later that afternoon. This caused a sudden tightness in Ian’s chest, and he wondered absently if Terry had found out about himself and his youngest son; though Ian assumed _that_ situation would at least warrant a panicked phone call or in-person visit.

 **Uhh okay?** Ian text back, chewing at his nails.

 **Mickey: Don’t worry, it’s protocol.** Ian considered this for a second, wondering what exactly a protocol meeting with Terry Milkovich entailed…

**Should I be worried?**

**Mickey: Terrified, probably.** A quick wave of nausea rose within him before he realized Mickey was probably being facetious.

**Fuck off.**

Suddenly his phone vibrated in his hand with another message, but it wasn’t from Mickey – it was from Security; he had a second date on Wednesday – 8pm this time – and he was to dress formally. He wondered absently if it was the same client as the week before – not that he would mind; the guy had been handsome, in his late-thirties, and had taken him to some business function that Ian forgot about the next day. It had gone well, except that at the end of the night, he had wanted to give Ian a hand job in the backseat. Ian let him, of course – that _was_ the job – but besides that awkwardness, the client had been genuinely nice and respectful of Ian’s business – which clearly not everyone was – and Ian thought that deserved to be rewarded. 

The memory brought the night before suddenly back to his mind – the way Mickey himself had looked naked, how hard he had been, how willing, how beautiful with bruising knuckles and blood on his pants, and he wondered absently if he should tell Mickey about the hand job, or if that was simply Ian’s business, just like Mickey’s business was his own.

 **Got another date on Wednesday.** Ian sent, feeling like Mickey should know _that_ at least; he felt like he owed him his honesty – maybe even his loyalty. More than that, they were friends, weren’t they?

**Mickey: Oh ya? What time?**

**8pm. Apparently a formal affair. Means I should probably go buy a suit…**

**Mickey: I should probably buy it, considering you lost a night’s worth of tips.** Ian thought that was sweet, that he would even offer, but fuck if he was going to be a charity case.

**The fuck is this, Pretty Woman?**

**Mickey: Fuck off Fire-crotch.** Fuck it, if it meant spending more time with him, he wasn’t going to say no.

**What time do you wanna pick me up then, Mr. Milkovich?**

**Mickey: Be there in fifteen.** _Shit,_ Ian thought, looking down at his tank top and boxers.

 **I’ll be downstairs.** With that, he ran into his bedroom, pulling on a clean pair of jeans and a button-down, combing his hair back into some sort of order. The bruising eye couldn’t be helped, but he liked it – made him look tough – and knew Mickey probably would, too.

Mickey pulled out onto the streets of a sunny afternoon in downtown Chicago, and Ian couldn’t help but glance at him – it was only the second time he’d ever seen him in daylight, and he watched the way the sun cast light and shadow over his blue eyes, sending them into waves of sapphire and cerulean; his dark lashes weren’t completely black, Ian noticed, but a deep, dark auburn that shone a little red sometimes.

“You need to stop staring at me so goddam much.” Mickey shot Ian a look with raised eyebrows.

“Can’t help it,” Ian admitted, and thought it was a little soft but fuck it, he didn’t care anymore. “You’d be doing the same to me if you didn’t have to watch the road…” Ian rubbed sarcastically at his jaw, knowing exactly what his ‘porcelain’ face did to Mickey. 

“Pfff,” Mickey spat, but smiled, and Ian knew he was right. “That’s gunna be a nice shiner, by the way.” Ian touched lightly at his brow bone at Mickey’s words; the tenderness was getting worse, and he knew by tomorrow it would be black.

“So where you taking me?” Ian opened his window, glancing up at the towers in daylight; he pulled out his phone, wanting to take a picture of a thousand reflections in glass as they sat at a red light.

“The fuck is with you and taking pictures?”

“I like remembering things,” Ian replied, thinking briefly to the picture of Mickey before changing the subject. “So where are we going?”

“Tom Ford,” Mickey said matter-of-factly, and Ian shot him a look.

“Tom fucking _Ford_!?” Ian may not have an amazing sense of fashion, but he knew at least who _that_ was.

“Only the best for me, man.” Mickey grinned, hitting the gas as the light turned green, the engine drowning out the sounds of everything else as he drove a few more blocks before pulling up in front of the boutique in the city’s centre.

An attendant was at the door as soon as they opened it, smiling at them in that way Ian hated, like he was ready to talk them into buying everything inside. Ian noticed his suit was immaculately pressed and tailored however, and he felt a little flutter of excitement at the prospect. The nicest thing he had ever owned was a stolen watch…

“Mr. Milkovich,” the man said, before acknowledging Ian, who felt suddenly like the poor, second-rate, South Side trash he was.

“This is Curtis.” Mickey gestured towards him, and Ian almost wondered why he wouldn’t use his real name but, it made sense if the Milkoviches were frequent customers, which clearly, they were. “He’s going to need a suit,” Mickey continued. “Preferably midnight blue or navy.” Ian shot him a curious look.

“Of course, Mr. Milkovich, right this way.” The attendant headed off into the back of the store, and when he was out of sight, Mickey leaned in towards Ian, grabbing playfully at his shirt collar.

“Trust me, Fire-crotch,” he whispered, his eyes glancing over Ian’s lips. “With those eyes and that hair, you’ll want blue.” Ian thought Mickey was trying very hard not to kiss him in public, and he kind of wished he’d just give in and do it; but Mickey turned instead, following off in the direction of the attendant and the private fitting area. Ian pressed his lips together, finding it rather amusing that Mickey seemed to have a good sense for fashion, but a part of it also made sense – he was never in anything plain or simple – everything had a label, and everything looked nice.

Ian smoothed back his hair, trying his best to at least look like he belonged as he trailed behind.

Ian stood looking at himself in the mirror, navy blue suit pinned across his body; Mickey had picked out a light brown pair of shoes – which had a hint of orange to them – and a pocket square that matched. It made his hair stand out more than it usually did, and although Ian kind of wished most days it was a colour other than red, he had to admit he looked fucking good. With the black eye, he kind of looked like James Bond. The thought made him smile to himself.

“Damn, Fire-crotch,” Mickey said from his seat behind him, biting his lip as he glanced at Ian’s reflection. Ian eyed him intently, and that familiar look from the night before was in Mickey’s eyes, and Ian knew if they had a chance to be alone, he wouldn’t hesitate to bend over.

“Think he’ll like it?” Ian asked, tugging at the white cuffs.

“Who? Your date?” Mickey rubbed at his temple, flipping through a magazine that sat on the table beside him.

“Yea.”

“Yea, Gallagher” Mickey sighed, trying to be sly as he glanced up from the pages, eye-fucking Ian’s reflection while the attendant went for a belt; it made Ian’s heart race. “He’ll like it.”

Mickey grabbed a cigarette from his pocket and lit it, probably needing a distraction, and Ian turned.

“Mickey!” he hissed, trying not to be too loud. Mickey glanced up at him, smoke dangling haphazardly from between his lips. “You can’t smoke in here!”

“I’ll do whatever the fuck I want in here, Curtis,” he replied, smiling. “Considering how much money I’m about to spend.” A puff of air escaped Ian’s nose in amusement, and nobody could ever accuse Mickey Milkovich of being subtle.

_Fuck it_.

“You sure I shouldn’t get a tie with it?” Ian hated to ask, because as Mickey basically just confirmed, he was pretty sure just a tie in this place cost more than a month’s worth of rent, and he hated feeling like he was being given charity.

“Definitely not,” Mickey answered, standing from his chair and strolling over to Ian, undoing the top two buttons of the white undershirt so that Ian’s chest hair and freckles poked through. “Keep it like this.”

Mickey’s face was so close that Ian felt his breath on his clavicle, tasted his cigarette, and that smell that made his blood hot came upwards into him, and he wanted all at once to be touching him. He did; he reached out and placed a hand on his jaw, stroking it lightly before the attendant’s footsteps could be heard on the tiles outside the door and Mickey stepped away, brushing Ian’s fingers with his own as he went back to his seat. Ian shifted slightly, trying to keep his dick from acting up in his new expensive suit.

The receipt was in Mickey’s wallet, which was sitting in the small compartment in the dash. Ian really, _really_ wanted to look at it; Mickey had simply handed the attendant a credit card and that had been it; it was all _thank you, Mr. Milkovich_ , and the suit will be tailored and delivered at 8am sharp on Wednesday morning.

“Please let me look,” Ian asked again, and Mickey grinned, the wrinkles by his eyes turning upwards.

“You really wanna know?” He grabbed his wallet, shoving it unceremoniously into Ian’s hands. “Go ahead. Just don’t get pissy.”

Ian hesitated for just a moment, wondering if one, he should actually look, and two, how Mickey knew he would get pissy if it was a number he didn’t like. Despite it, he opened the wallet, pulling out the folded receipt.

“ _Are you fucking kidding me_!?” he spat, pissy-ness definitely setting in as his mouth dropped open. The total came to just over ten-thousand dollars. Ian felt his face go hot. “Mickey the fucking belt alone was over _seven hundred bucks_!” Mickey laughed – genuinely snorted as Ian just stared at the receipt, its corners flapping wildly in the breeze of Ian’s open window.

“Doesn’t mean I’m your fuckin’ sugar daddy or anything,” Mickey admitted then, reining himself in. “Just something to make up for last night and the tips you’ll lose tonight.”

Ian rolled his eyes, and did the math quickly in his head; he figured with half the shift he had given up the night before, and the entirety of the shift he was given off tonight, he maybe was losing out on about six-hundred dollars worth of tips.

“Well then you should have just bought me the fucking belt, Mick!” Ian _was_ actually a little pissed; he felt rather inferior all of a sudden – again like he wasn’t quite good enough – and most definitely like he was being given charity. “Can you take it back or…”

“Fuck off,” Mickey interrupted, grabbing the receipt and his wallet back from Ian rather forcefully. “Just take it as a gesture of good faith from the Milkoviches then if it makes you feel better.” Mickey sounded abruptly annoyed, angry, and maybe a little hurt; Ian got the sudden notion that Mickey was simply trying to be kind in the only way that really made sense to him; more than that, he was trying to be kind to Ian – to _do something_ for Ian, which is more than anyone else ever had.

Ian reached out, wanting at once to calm him, and brushed his knuckles with his fingers, feeling the scabs that were forming from his punches.

“Hey,” he said softly, and Mickey glanced at him, his face settling into calm. “Thank you.” Mickey sniffed loudly, squeezing one of Ian’s fingers before letting go, placing his right hand onto the wheel; this was something he never did, and Ian felt for the first time what it was like when Mickey was upset with him, and probably just needed a minute to himself. He made a mental note of it – of the trigger, of the reaction, and the response – and despite the anger directed towards him, he was happy; happy that he knew just another little part of Mickey Milkovich.

~

Mickey wasn’t used to doing things for other people, and he didn’t know what else to do for Ian besides this. The compensation for lost tips shit was a lie of course – he wanted to _give_ him something, like he felt Ian had given him; it was soft, and it was fucking stupid, but he felt like he needed to, if only to keep Ian in front of him for one more afternoon.

The fact that Ian had asked him if he could take it back made him upset in a ridiculous way he didn’t really understand, like his feelings were hurt or something. _That’s not possible, is it_? Mickey thought; he didn’t really have _feelings_ – not in _that_ sense of the word, anyways. Glancing at Ian, he saw that he, too, looked suddenly adrift, like he knew he had affected Mickey somehow and was lost in his own sea of fucked up emotions that a life on the South Side prevented him from properly expressing.

Maybe he should throw him a lifeline…

“I just,” Mickey started, but stopped, not knowing really how to continue. This wasn’t something he was good at, and found a comfort in sarcasm and facetiousness more than honesty. Ian was South Side, and Mickey knew he probably didn’t like to feel like he was being given gifts, and maybe he even considered it charity or something. Ian glanced at him, his hand on his mouth as if waiting. “I dunno…” Mickey continued, running a hand through his hair. “I wanted to like, fuckin give you something or some shit...” He scratched the back of his head, and didn’t want to look at Ian.

“Why?” Ian asked, genuinely, and there was no hint of malice in his voice.

_Why?_ Mickey thought, and smiled to himself.

“What kind of dumb fucking question is that?” Mickey spat, but met Ian’s gaze. Ian smiled, his lips turning up as if he knew.

“You don’t owe me anything for that,” Ian said simply, putting his hand out in waiting. Mickey let go of the wheel, switching hands as he placed his right back into Ian’s. “I like being with you. I liked…fucking you,” Ian bit his lip, his face going red at the word. “Whatever this is, I like it.”

Mickey felt his heart beat a little faster, the touch of Ian’s fingers on his sending that familiar shockwave throughout him, his flesh turning to goose-bumps as all his hairs stood on end, as if Ian were the static in a storm.

“Yea okay sweetheart,” Mickey replied, laying the comforting sarcasm on hard, but he gripped tighter to Ian’s hand as they turned towards the club.

Whatever this was, he liked it, too.

Terry was waiting in his office as Mickey strolled in, Ian hot on his heels. The sunlight was pouring through the windows, illuminating the haze of cigar smoke that hung like a dank ceiling over the room; Mickey thought it was the perfect analogy for how he was feeling – for the worry and anxiety that clouded him at the moment – being with Ian and all...

“Pops,” Mickey said, sitting down in one of the chairs opposite, motioning for Ian to take a seat in the other. “This is Curtis.” Mickey made sure not to look at Ian longer than he had to, and mentally prepared himself to calculate every move he made, as if this were fucking war.

Terry glanced up, barely looking at Ian as he held out his hand to him; Ian hesitated a moment, and Mickey saw the glance he _almost_ shot in his direction before thinking better of it and shaking the man’s hand.

“Nice to meet you, sir,” Ian said, and Mickey had to chew the inside of his lip to keep from snorting.

“Curtis.” Terry puffed on his cigar, glancing over some paperwork – as if he had more important things to do – before finally turning his full attention onto them. Mickey wasn’t surprised at the lack of interest, Curtis _was_ gay after all, and Terry _was_ an asshole. “So the client who assaulted you has been taken care of,” he continued, opening his drawer and pulling out an envelope that he tossed haphazardly onto the desk in front of Ian. “This is regular compensation if someone gets hurt on our watch.”

“Thank you,” Ian said, grabbing the envelope without even looking inside and shoving it into his pocket. Mickey knew how much was in there, and smiled to himself as he thought about Ian’s reaction when he opened it.

“If you want to quit,” Terry put in, chewing the wet end of his cigar, “by all means you’re allowed; after such an incident we don’t expect people to stay on for us.”

Mickey risked a glance at Ian then, his stomach dropping out at the idea that Ian might just take Terry up on his offer. Ian’s brow furrowed a bit and his lips tightened; he was quiet for much longer than Mickey was used to, and it was obvious to him that Ian was weighing out his options – seriously considering the pros and cons of this bargain, though Mickey wasn’t actually sure there _were_ any cons.

Mickey rubbed absently at his eyebrow then, and the movement caused Ian to suddenly look in his direction; he looked at Mickey for just a second, not long enough for anybody to notice anything out of the ordinary, but Mickey saw within that look a decision being made, and a longing for something he couldn’t be sure of.

“No,” Ian said then, his mind clearly made up, and Mickey breathed. “I’m happy to stay on for now.”

“He does want a weekend off, though,” Mickey put in suddenly, not exactly sure where it came from, but he all at once remembered Ian’s request for taking time off. “In three weeks.” Terry eyed his son, clearly annoyed he had said anything at all, but bobbed his head in consideration.

“Fine.” With that, Terry stood, grabbing the paperwork from off his desk and quickly leaving the room. As soon as the door closed behind him, Mickey exhaled, and he hadn’t realized just how much he was on edge.

“There you go, Fire-crotch.” Mickey smiled, needing to find his rhythm again as he pulled out a cigarette. “Got you some time off…” Ian punched at his arm, and there was nothing but thanks behind it.

“Why in three weeks, though?” he asked, his brows coming together.

“I’ll be out of town on business and,” Mickey stopped, not wanting to sound like a pussy. “I just won’t be here.”

Ian frowned slightly, and Mickey hoped it was at the prospect of a weekend without him, because weekends were clearly becoming their _thing_ – a _new_ thing that Mickey had never had, but always wanted. Ian glanced quickly at the closed door before suddenly leaning over, pulling the lit cigarette from between Mickey’s lips as he kissed him, deeply, his smoke exhaling into Ian’s lungs for just a second before he pulled away, and shoved Mickey’s cigarette back into his mouth.

~

_I had a way out_ , Ian thought, leaning against the wall of the elevator as he headed up to his apartment. For the tenth time since they had left Terry Milkovich’s office, he wondered if he had made the wrong decision; he probably had, because he was thinking so long and so hard about it; but there had just been something about seeing Mickey in that moment – the way he nervously scratched at his eyebrow as if the thought was a burden on him, too. That little gesture – so uncharacteristically telling – brought forth the sudden, undeniable fact that he’d never again be able to see Mickey do all the little things he does if Ian chose to leave, and the thought made him blurt out his answer as if his heart spoke before his mind had had a chance to reason with it.

_It’s done_. As distraction, he played over the afternoon in his mind, trying to decide how or _if_ he would tell Lip when he went home in three weeks that he had met Terry Milkovich; was working for him; was fucking his son..

“I met his fucking dad…” Ian said then, out loud, as if the realization just hit him like a slap in the face. It had been more nerve-wracking than he had thought it would be, but more so _because_ he was fucking his son, and not because it was Terry fucking Milkovich, South Side royalty.

 _Are we fucking, though?_ he thought absently, his mind beginning its cycle of wandering thoughts that happened when he was alone. It had only been one time, and at this rate, with how little they actually saw each other, there wouldn’t be a second time for a while. _Unless I invite him over…_

Ian pulled the envelope out from his pocket as the doors dinged open; it didn’t feel overly thick, and he hoped after his time with Mickey today that it wasn’t some ridiculous amount. He unlocked the door, throwing his keys onto his table before flopping down onto the couch, where he slid a finger into the lip and ripped it open.

Inside there was five thousand dollars in hundreds.

Ian pulled out his work phone, immediately texting Mickey.

**Are you fucking kidding me with this shit?** He sent it, knowing full well Mickey would know exactly what he was talking about.

**Mickey: It’s standard compensation.** Ian rolled his eyes, and seriously considered chucking his phone across the room.

**So in one day the Milkovich family has managed to spend approximately fifteen fucking grand on me!?!?** Ian slumped back into the cushions, his head thumping hard against the back of the couch; that number was absolutely unfathomable to him; but he _was_ thankful, and figured there wasn’t a whole Hell of a lot he could do about it now; so he got up, putting the cash into the freezer so he could take it to Lip and Debbie.

**Mickey: I’d have given you more.** At that, Ian’s stomach tightened, and his annoyance ebbed away; all at once he wanted to be inside of Mickey – this sudden, sarcastic, tough, soft boy who said soft things sometimes – tasting him in new and different ways that would set him on fire.

**Come over.** He sent, without having to think at all about it, and knew Mickey was still close enough that he could do it; he could turn the car around and come to him – give him what he needed – just like he had the night before.

**Mickey: Ok**

Ian jogged down the hall, pacing from one wall to the other as he waited for the elevator that was taking for-fucking-ever; he hadn’t wanted to just wait and buzz him in – that would somehow take longer, right? He wanted to see him – _needed_ to see him – now.

When the elevator finally came, he stepped inside, chewing his thumb nail to keep himself from getting a full-on erection before he even reached the lobby. Just the thought of Mickey being close, of coming back for him, of saying nice things, was already sending twitches throughout his stomach and his dick.

The door slid open, just in time for Ian to see Mickey’s car pull up out front, the tires squealing loudly as he came to a dead stop from full speed in the lot. The sight of Mickey hurrying made Ian bite into his lip, and he went to the door, Mickey’s blue eyes meeting his with just as much need as he felt.

“Come here,” Ian sighed, and didn’t even bother looking around as his mouth came down onto Mickey’s, grabbing him by his collar as he turned him, pushing him back through the glass doors and up against the lobby wall. Mickey’s tongue was in his mouth at once, his breath hot and fast as he tasted him; he sucked at Ian’s lips, the small, wet sounds of kisses escaping every time he eased off, went in again, harder this time, and Ian bit at him in return, trying to taste every cell. Mickey’s chest was breathing against his own, and Ian registered the quickened thump of his heartbeat for just a second before Mickey pulled suddenly back, and Ian was left panting and ready as Mickey grabbed his hand, dragging him towards the elevator.

It was fucking torture standing there; waiting; needing. Ian could feel the electricity coming off of Mickey like he was livewire, and all Ian had to do to survive was reach out and touch him…

As soon as the door opened, Ian was pushing him inside again, he couldn’t help it; his mouth was on Mickey’s neck, his jaw, tasting his sweat and the pulse under his skin; Mickey let out a small moan, high-pitched and vulnerable, and the sound made Ian quiver as he hit blindly at the seventh floor button, pushing his body firmly up against Mickey’s in answering, and his dick was so fucking hard he was afraid he was going to cum in his pants just by rubbing against him.

“I’m not gunna fuckin make it,” Mickey whispered suddenly, echoing Ian’s own thoughts, and Ian smiled against his lips, reaching his hands down and feeling that Mickey, too, was hard as fuck, the heat from his cock radiating through his jeans into Ian’s hands.

“Give me one more minute,” Ian begged, and – thank fuck – the doors opened; he grabbed Mickey’s hand, pulling him harshly down the hall and directly into his apartment.

The door had barely closed when Ian slammed him up against it, a loud thud reverberating throughout the walls.

“Waitwaitwait,” Mickey hissed, and Ian pulled back for a second as Mickey reached into the back of his jeans, pulling out his Glock and setting it onto the side table; Ian eyed it, the metal that had been against Mickey’s flesh sending a wave of pleasure to his stomach and he grabbed at Mickey’s belt, his forehead pressing against his then as their breath came fast; Mickey did the same in return, reaching out and grasping Ian’s buckle with shaking hands. Their pants hit the floor simultaneously, and they didn’t even leave the front hallway as Ian reached down, shoving the waistband of Mickey’s boxers down just enough and grabbing hold of his dick, already dripping with precum.

“Fuck,” Mickey hissed, and Ian could feel he was already pulsing, not too far off. “Oh fuck.”

Ian grabbed Mickey’s hand out of instinct, pushing it down onto his own cock and forcing Mickey’s fingers around him as he arched into his touch, dragging Mickey’s hand from the tip to the base and back again.

“Touch me, Mickey,” Ian whimpered, and Mickey tightened his grip, the pressure sending instant waves of pleasure throughout Ian’s stomach, and his balls tightened as his muscles contracted. They stood like that for only a second, each one tugging firmly on the other’s cock, their foreheads pressing together hard as they both watched.

Mickey’s scent was in Ian’s nose then, sending goose bumps over his flesh that made his hair rise and his nipples harden under his shirt, and all at once he needed him closer; he grasped harder onto Mickey’s dick and pulled, causing Mickey to step forward, and the tips of their cocks came together suddenly, their precum mixing before dripping down onto the floor, and the sight of it was enough for Ian.

“Oh Jesus Christ,” he cried, the warmth spreading suddenly throughout his back, his belly, and his balls, and Mickey increased his grip at the sound; Ian felt the break, and he slammed the palm of his hand so hard onto the wall above Mickey’s head that he broke through the drywall as he came, hard, all over Mickey’s own cock, four pulses of cum stringing outwards onto his shaft and into his pubes. Ian fell forward at the release, pressing so hard into Mickey that he fell back against the wall as Ian collapsed into him, the action and the sudden tightness of Ian’s other hand causing Mickey to reach his own tipping point.

A loud _ugh ugh_ escaped Mickey’s lips as he came then, three long ropes of his own cum managing to reach Ian’s bare thighs.

“Oh fuck,” Mickey sighed, clearly out of breath, and he slid suddenly down the wall as if he had given all that he had, causing Ian to go with him as they slumped harshly onto the floor.

“Fuck, Mick,” Ian said, finally letting go of Mickey’s dick; he felt suddenly full – full of life, of energy, of happiness – and he reached over, grabbing Mickey’s collar and pushing him down onto his back on the floor. Ian stretched out on top of him, his arms propping himself up as his softening cock pressed into Mickey’s belly, scratching gently against the hairs there. Mickey smiled against Ian’s lips, obviously enthralled at the same feeling. Their pants were still around their ankles, making clunky metallic sounds as their belts hit each other and the floor.

“You’re getting cum all over my legs,” Mickey sighed, his eyes closing as Ian bit at his neck, kissed his earlobe. Ian could feel the slickness between their thighs, too, and he rejoiced in it.

“We should shower, then,” Ian whispered in his ear, and he watched as the hairs on Mickey’s flesh reacted to the sound and the closeness of his breath; he had imagined – since that first day together – of being in that shower with Mickey, and he smiled as Mickey’s eyes shot open at his words, and he glanced up at him, one corner of his mouth pulling up a little at the prospect.

“I mean, if you insist,” he joked, shrugging under Ian’s weight, and bit playfully at his lip, pulling it hard enough that Ian almost tasted blood.

Ian hobbled up, trying not to trip over his jeans as he pulled them off unceremoniously after his high-tops, kicking them all into a pile in the living room. He held his hands out for Mickey, who took them, and he pulled him up off the floor in one swift motion, wrapping his arms around Mickey’s waist as he stood, kissing him deeply, slowly, once more.

“Take your fucking clothes off,” Ian demanded, wanting suddenly to see all of him – his pale skin, his black hair, his scar; he turned and headed into the bathroom, turning on both shower heads with a couple flicks of the knobs. Ian pulled off his shirt, steam filling the room as he tossed it onto the floor. Mickey came in behind him then, fully naked, and Ian turned, glancing over him from head to toe; the sight of those opulent sheens of drying cum all over Mickey’s cock and his thighs made Ian’s own dick twitch, and he knew he could go again in an instant. He glanced up, and his eyes met Mickey’s suddenly in a softer way than he was used to; Mickey’s eyes were no longer intense – weren’t boring into his own with that raw need that he was used to seeing reflected back at him; instead, it was a quiet look with lowered lids –a look that said more than words ever could, and all at once Ian realized there was a feeling in his chest that hadn’t been there before – not for a long, long time; he knew what it was – it was attraction, was _liking_ , and he knew that the last time he had felt it was with Trevor, but never this soon, or this intense, and that scared him.

Mickey’s own eyes surveyed Ian as he stared, and he bit absently at his lip, chewing it, and Ian watched as Mickey’s cock began to redden again, slowly rising to his challenge.

Ian stepped back into the shower, his eyes never leaving Mickey’s as the water began to cascade over him, washing away his fears as the droplets ran down into his eyes, burning them the slightest bit, but he didn’t really care; he wasn’t going to look away.

~

Ian’s hair got darker when it was wet, and Mickey watched as the water trailed down over his lashes, his neck; over his chest and down his stomach, those same droplets mixing with the red hair below his navel before they dripped further, running along his veins and off the tip of his hardening cock. As he gazed back up into Ian’s eyes, he thought absently that something about _this_ time seemed different. Those first two meetings of flesh he knew had just been raw, physical fucks born out of an instantaneous moment; but now, with the way Ian was looking at him, with the time they had, and the way the answering tightness in his own chest was growing, Mickey thought suddenly that it was almost as if he was in…no, it couldn’t be that; _like_ , maybe – was this what it felt like to _like_ someone? Did he have a fucking _crush_? Mickey almost gagged on the thought, simply because the foreign concept was so childish. Sure, they had held hands, had kissed, but Mickey always thought of it as a simple act of being sure of one another, like always keeping an eye on the lighthouse in a growing storm, just to be sure of its presence, for your own safety more than anything else. If they were more than just fuck buddies now though, Mickey didn’t really know – he had never had anything close enough to it to even know what to look for in the first place – but right now, he didn’t really care; he just stared back at Ian, letting this entirely new feeling warm him, and settle itself somewhere inside his hardened ribcage.

“Come here,” Ian said again, a whisper this time, and his eyes were full of hunger. Mickey obeyed, stepping forward into the shower, and the hot water at once sent new pleasures within him as Ian draped his arms around his neck, entwining him into a grip that was all-consuming, wet, and hot.

“This is a nice fuckin’ shower,” Mickey joked, trying to lighten the tension in his own chest as he laughed a little against Ian’s, his red hairs tickling the tip of his nose.

“It’s a _big_ fuckin’ shower,” Ian sighed, his meaning quite clear as he fell to his knees. Mickey watched him, and found he took almost as much pleasure in simply watching Ian as he did the actual act. Just like the night before, Ian caressed his thighs, taking extra care to avoid the newly re-done stitches that probably shouldn’t be getting wet, but fuck it. Again, Ian leaned in, pressing his lips to the bandage gently before leaning forward.

Mickey let his head fall back as Ian took him into his mouth, all the blood returning at once to its rightful place as Ian sucked hard on his tip, his tongue swirling around him as the sounds of water and spit mingled together into a euphoric noise. Mickey felt the drops fall onto his eyelids, onto his nipples, and took in every sensation separately and together. Ian grabbed suddenly onto his ass cheeks, squeezing harshly so that Mickey winced, but enjoyed the sensation as Ian pulled Mickey’s hips towards him, gagging suddenly on just how deep Mickey’s dick was in his throat. 

“Jesus Ian,” he cried, embarrassed how high his voice went. Release was already building within him as Ian sucked, letting the tip of Mickey’s cock pound slowly into his cheek where it rubbed over the bumps of his teeth, sending a wave of something new into Mickey’s veins as Ian squeezed his ass once more before moving his hands down to cup at his balls, to rub at his opening. Mickey opened his eyes suddenly at the sensation, letting the water fall directly into them as he stared at the ceiling, their own reflection in the glass above giving him a bird’s eye view as he reached his hands down, grabbing onto Ian’s head and holding it in place. The warmth came shooting forward then, his stomach and ass contracting as a hiss of air escaped his lips and he came down Ian’s throat. “Fuuuck.”

Ian stood, making sure he didn’t swallow until he was looking Mickey in the eye; the act nearly drove Mickey insane as that feeling in his ribcage grew with his panting breaths, and he reached up, bringing Ian’s face down to his so he could taste himself on those lips; it was the hottest thing in the world.

Mickey bent his head then, trailing kisses down Ian’s chest, biting him hard and leaving marks, like he had done to him. He could taste the water and Ian’s own sweat, and he drank it in as he knelt, grabbing hold of Ian’s dick with both hands, wondering if he could even manage to fit it all in and return the favour half as well.

His eyes went up, meeting Ian’s, and Ian’s face contorted to one of pleasure as Mickey slid him into his mouth as far as he could manage, gagging suddenly on the tip as it hit the back of his throat. Ian winced at the sound, his back arching as Mickey’s throat contracted against his sensitive head.

“Shit Mickey,” he whimpered again; Mickey loved that Ian’s voice went so high-pitched and quiet at his touch, and he suddenly didn’t feel as embarrassed at his own changing octaves. “Can I cum in your mouth?” he asked suddenly, and Mickey appreciated the question. Nobody had ever cum in his mouth before, but for Ian, he knew he’d do it.

“Yea baby,” he said, pulling his mouth off for just a second; he said it without thinking – it just came out – but at the word Ian grabbed hold of his dick hard, as if that were the hottest thing Mickey could have said or done, and aimed it far into Mickey’s mouth as he came instantly, his back arching as Mickey felt the warm strings of cum hit the back of his throat and drip their way down. Mickey made a point of looking directly into Ian’s eyes as he, too, swallowed before licking the tip of his dick clean, and he was fucking proud.

“Fuck, come here,” Ian cried, pulling Mickey at once to his feet, opening his mouth the littlest bit with his thumbs, letting the water cascade between his lips as he looked inside, as if to see if Mickey had swallowed every drop of him. Ian’s mouth came together with his then one last time, his tongue going deep inside as they tasted the salt of each other.

“You called me baby,” Ian teased a minute later, grabbing the soap off the shelf and rubbing it over Mickey’s shoulders. “That was fucking cute.”

“Shut up,” Mickey spat, stepping back and stealing the soap from his hands. “It just came out, doesn’t mean anything.” That was a lie, and Ian probably knew it.

“I liked it,” Ian admitted simply, trying to grab the soap back from Mickey’s hands, but he held it out and away, like they were suddenly just boys with crushes playing games.

~

Ian sat on the arm of the couch and again watched Mickey dress, finding a subtle pleasure in the way he hiked up his jeans; the way he tied the laces of his boots; the way his FUCK U-UP fingers fiddled with his belt, all the while his wet, black hair tumbled forward into those eyes he thought he maybe loved; not that he was _in_ love – not yet – but he was starting to appreciate all the little things that made Mickey, Mickey; and even though he had said it once already after they had first fucked, Ian wanted suddenly to tell him once more just how beautiful he thought he was, but at the last minute he thought better of it.

“Text me later?” he asked instead, and stood, walking over to Mickey in his towel. Mickey grinned at him, chewing his lip in that way that Ian also loved.

“Gettin’ a little attached, are we?” he joked, but Ian knew it was just a defense mechanism, because he _was_ getting attached, and so, too, was Ian. Mickey headed for the door, but stopped abruptly, reaching back suddenly and pulling Ian’s towel off from around his waist in a swift motion before throwing it off into the corner. Ian just stood there – impressed at his boyish antics – the corner of his mouth pulling up as Mickey glanced over him, his lips pouting outwards as his eyebrows rose. “Hang on, let me take a picture so I can remember this,” he joked, clearly mocking Ian’s weird habit, but Ian just stared at him.

“Do it,” he said, and the idea turned him on immensely. Mickey’s smile disappeared, and he watched Ian for a second, clearly contemplating whether or not he was joking or if he should do it; after a moment he pulled out his phone, and Ian pushed a hand through his wet hair, turning slightly so the light would catch him more side-on. Mickey’s camera clicked – the sound breaking the silence – and he barely grinned as his lips parted – a look like sex crossing his face – before he quickly clicked his screen off and shoved it back into his pocket; turning, Mickey grabbed the gun, and headed out the door without another word.

_There_ , Ian thought, watching Mickey disappear before striding naked back into his room. _Now he can look at me at night._ Though he thought maybe he should ask for a new picture, considering…

They messaged back and forth for a few days after, but their conversations never became anything more than the exchange of mundane information and jokes. Ian had also jacked off to his photo of Mickey driving at least three separate times, and he wondered absently if Mickey had done the same; he wanted to ask him – to bring up something fun and flirty and different – but he knew they couldn’t risk saying too much over text, so when Mickey called him out of the blue on Tuesday evening, he asked nonchalantly – trying casually to fit it into the conversation – if it would be better for him to give Mickey his private cell number instead.

“Fuck no,” Mickey spat, and the authority in his voice was the kind that Ian knew he couldn’t question. “If anyone ever got hold of my phone, Gallagher, then…” he trailed off, and Ian worried at the way Mickey said it, like someone getting to Mickey and getting to his phone was a very real possibility; but he understood – Ian’s personal number was something _real_ , and you never told anyone your real shit.

“Fair enough.” Ian nodded against the phone, wishing they could be a little more open with each other over text than they were, but he loved that Mickey would always put his safety before his own satisfaction.

On Wednesday Ian hooked the Tom Ford on the back of the bathroom door, sincerely scared about wearing an outfit that cost over ten fucking grand; he had spoken to Lip earlier in the day, telling him about the new suit he had gotten for a client, but not how much the fucking thing had cost. Lip had put him on speaker after so he could talk to everyone in the kitchen at once – to Debbie about Franny, and Liam about school; he informed them that he’d be home in three weeks for a weekend, and that he had some cash to drop off, also leaving out just how fucking much _that_ was, too; with his tips by then, he was hoping it would be closer to seven grand.

Ian’s phone vibrated then as he set the shoe box onto the counter, and he glanced at the screen, happy to see Mickey’s name.

**Mickey: Suit fit?** Ian unzipped the bag, and even though he had seen it already, he was surprised at just how fucking nice it was. He slathered on some deodorant – checking his body to ensure there was absolutely nothing on it that could stain his Tom Ford – before finally putting it on. It fit like a fucking glove.

**I don’t think my date will have a problem.** He replied, tucking in the pocket square.

**Mickey: If he does, I’ll have a chat with him.**

 **Settle down.** Ian took the shoe box from the counter, pulling them out and buffing them quickly before sliding them on.

**Mickey: What time are they coming for you again?**

  1. Ian glanced at the clock, realizing he only had half an hour. **I should probably go. Wish me luck!**



**Mickey: Good luck, Fire-crotch.** With that, Ian combed his hair back, using just enough gel to keep it slicked into place before spraying on some cologne. The shoes and the pocket-square made his hair stand out, and also his freckles, and for once in his life, he was pretty fucking proud of being a ginger.

At 7:55 he was outside the doors of the lobby, fidgeting with his cuffs and ensuring for the tenth time his work phone was in the inside pocket, which he noticed absently had his fucking initials sewn onto it. Ian would have worried about the _IG_ , but knew Mickey wouldn’t have given them any more information than that.

The black Range Rover pulled up, just like it had the previous week, and Ian opened the door, undoing his jacket button so he could slide in and sit like a gentleman.

“Fuck me,” a voice said suddenly, and Ian glanced up. Mickey was sitting in the driver’s seat, his eyes scanning Ian up and down as he raised his eyebrows. “May as well just go back upstairs with you lookin’ like that...”

“What are you doing here?” Ian interrupted, surprised, and glanced in the back seat, half expecting to see security or his date. “Are you driving me?”

Mickey snorted, putting the car into gear.

“You think I’d dress like this just to drive you around?” Ian looked at Mickey then, and noticed he was wearing a suit that appeared even more expensive than his own; it was dark grey, but instead of a dress shirt underneath, he was wearing a crew-neck sweater – jet black – with a gold chain. His hair was slicked back even more than it usually was, and Ian could smell a hint of something more than his South Side fragrance, like spices and expensive Scotch.

He was fucking phenomenal.

“ _Are you my date!?_ ” Ian spat, realization finally sinking in, and he felt the smile pull across his face. Mickey shrugged, pulling out into the darkening sky of downtown.

“Fuck, maybe I _am_ a sugar daddy” he joked, but this time Ian didn’t feel like a charity case, he felt everything within him tightening at the idea of an actual date with Mickey Milkovich, the man he knew he kinda liked a little more than he had anyone else this quickly.

“We goin’ to Sizzler’s?” Ian asked, loving the way Mickey’s answering laugh made him happy.

“Little nicer than that.” Mickey put out his right hand automatically, and Ian intertwined his fingers through, finding an odd comfort in those knuckle tattoos that contrasted so completely with his outer appearance; like no matter what, the South Side in his blood would always find its way to the surface.

Ian waited – glancing up and down the street – as Mickey tipped the valet and gave him his keys; this was a part of the city Ian had never really been to before, and he didn’t recognize the building, though the line out front and the soft echoes of sound from within gave it an atmosphere of popularity. A black sedan pulled around the corner then as Ian glanced towards Mickey, its headlights making him squint as it passed them; Ian glanced at it absently, thinking it looked kind of familiar, like that car that had ridden their ass that first night Mickey had picked him up; Ian wondered if he should say something, but the car just kept going, and Ian forgot about it – not like a thousand people in this city didn’t have that car...

“Ready?” Mickey asked suddenly, and Ian turned, refocusing his attention to the man before him.

“Fuck yes.”

Mickey skipped the line, of course; they were on the second floor of the all-glass building that Ian realized belatedly was actually on the shore and overlooked Lake Michigan, you just couldn’t tell from the street. The main restaurant was on the first floor, but the second floor held a more private lounge, the likes of which looked way too nice for someone like Ian. There was a sign outside the wooden doors that said they were closing for a private function in less than an hour – at 9pm – and Ian hesitated to enter.

“Did you want to go somewhere else?” Ian asked, motioning to the sign, “We only have like forty-five minutes…” Mickey scoffed.

“Fuck no.” He opened the door, and the maître d’ immediately was at his side.

“Mr. Milkovich,” he said, and Ian pressed his lips together. “We have your table ready, and have organized everyone to be gone by nine.” With that he turned, motioning for them to follow as he pranced off in the direction of a back corner booth, set higher up and looking out over the water.

“Wait,” Ian hissed, shooting Mickey a look of daggers as he grabbed his arm before he could turn. “You booked out the _whole_ fucking _lounge_?” Mickey winked at him, the corner of his mouth pulling up, and Ian bit at his own lip to keep from getting angry in the most delightfully happy way. “I told you not to do this shit…” Ian trailed off, stopping as he remembered Mickey’s trigger from a few days before, getting upset when someone rejected the things he tried to do out of kindness.

“It’s not _for_ you,” Mickey replied then, pulling down a cuff sleeve, and Ian thought that maybe Mickey was doing something for himself.

“Good evening, Mr. Milkovich,” a waiter said then in passing, and Mickey nodded, strolling off in the direction of their booth.

“Jesus, is there anyone in this fuckin’ city that _doesn’t_ know you?” Ian spat, straightening his collar one last time as he followed his ridiculous date into the lounge.

“ _You_ didn’t,” Mickey admitted, his voice trailing back to Ian, who smiled to himself.

Quite a few people glanced in their direction, and Ian worried absently that the wrong person might recognize Mickey, and somehow Terry would find out; but he knew Mickey was smarter than that, and probably had plans in place. 

A few men glanced up at them from a lower table, their eyes scanning over he and Mickey as if they were not just the appetizers, but the main course; the sensation made Ian feel powerful suddenly – beautiful, worthy – not just because of his suit and the way he looked in the moment, but because he – of all people – was walking to a booth with Mickey Milkovich, youngest, felon son of Chicago millionaire and crime boss.

For the first time in his life, Ian felt untouchable, like nobody could come near him; and he realized absently that that seemed to be a theme when it came to the time he spent with Mickey.

“Go on,” Mickey said as they reached the booth, standing back and unbuttoning his jacket as he let Ian slide in first. It was fascinating to Ian just how formal Mickey could be.

Once seated, Mickey slid in next to him, much closer than Ian thought he would. Ian reached under the table at his sudden nearness and squeezed his knee, ensuring the gesture was well out of sight. Mickey reached his hand down in return, squeezing Ian’s hand before they both let go.

Ian glanced around the room then, taking in the white-linen-topped tables, the candlelight, and the bottles of champagne; there was a stage in the corner of the lounge, and upon it was a man in a tuxedo, playing the piano; a young woman sat across from him on a low stool, quietly crooning out jazz songs from decades past. Ian stared at her longer than he normally would a woman; she was stunning: long dark hair flowing half-way down her back, red lips pressed seductively close to the microphone, a rose-gold dress hugging her slim body as the golden lights surrounding her made her almost glow and seem somewhat angelic, with a voice to match.

“You know, if I were straight…” Ian trailed off, his meaning well-implied as he pointed a single finger at the woman before glancing back at Mickey, whose own sudden beauty took Ian’s breath away as their eyes met.

Mickey snorted at this as the waiter came over, handing him the drinks list.

“Careful, Fire-crotch,” he said, opening the small booklet. “That’s my sister.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I listened to Skin by Rag'n'Bone Man a lot while writing this chapter. Songs always inspire me, and I hope they give you just another added level of depth to these boys in my story. The next chapter is going to be a long one, and a fun one, and a chaotic one, and a very South Side one!


	5. Hot-Wire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey and Ian go on a date that turns out to be just a little bit downtown, and a little bit South Side. As the rain sets in, the night takes some sharp turns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning that there is some homophobic language in this chapter that may be triggering for some people; besides that, there are a lot of things to make up for it! I hope yous enjoy, and thank you to everyone who has commented, kudos'd, bookmarked, whatever! It all means the world.  
> If you want weekly excerpts and updates, please feel free to follow me on Twitter @WhatsaMattavich !!

Ian looked long and hard at Mickey before glancing back at his sister; unlike with Iggy, Ian could see a resemblance between these two Milkoviches; they had dark hair and sharp features, light skin and an assuredness about them that almost made them seem superior to everyone, which Ian knew – at least when it came to Mickey – that that was true. Beyond that, they were just beautiful.

“Mandy,” Mickey said then, absently, eyeing his sister briefly before looking down at the drink menu.

“I never knew you had a sister.” Ian had met Iggy; had heard Mickey mention Colin once or twice before; but never a sister. He leaned over, peering absently at the prices of the drinks as Mickey read through and was thankful that there was at least _something_ Mickey wasn’t going to have to buy him. “I can’t drink,” he admitted bluntly, and Mickey’s eyes met his.

“Why the fuck not?”

“Meds,” Ian replied, shrugging, glancing out across the room to avoid eye contact, as if this fact was an unnecessary burden on both of them. Mickey nodded – seeming not the least bit put out – as he folded the menu closed and pushed it across the table.

“No drinks, then.” The corner of his mouth pulled up the smallest bit as he peered at Ian, clearly trying to make him feel comfortable about being honest.

“Well _you_ can drink,” Ian put in suddenly, not wanting to be a fucking buzz-kill. “I get fucked off one beer though, so…” he trailed off as Mickey rubbed suddenly at his eyebrow before tousling absently at the side of his head; he was fidgeting, and Ian could tell there was something on his mind. “What is it?” Ian asked after a second, and Mickey glanced up at him from under those dark lashes.

“You didn’t have to like, tell me that,” he spat finally, sitting up straighter in his seat as he fiddled with the cutlery. “About being bipolar, I mean.” Mickey glanced over at his sister as she hugged the microphone, as if he, too, wanted to look anywhere but at Ian. Ian felt a sudden wave of anxiety at his words, and wasn’t sure if what Mickey actually meant was that he _shouldn’t_ have told him...

“Oh,” was all he could manage, and he peered out the window to his left, watching the distant lights of ships on the water. Suddenly Mickey’s hand was on his under the table, and he glanced back towards him, the sudden closeness of Mickey’s face to his a shock to the system entirely.

“I mean that it doesn’t matter to me,” Mickey confessed then, and Ian could tell he was trying his best to hold his gaze, probably so that Ian knew he was trying for once to be serious, and wouldn’t crack a joke out of habit. “Trust me,” he continued, letting go of Ian’s hand and rubbing absently at the bandaged area of his thigh. “It doesn’t define who you are; besides, there are way worse things you could be…”

That statement was unexpected, and Ian found he was a little heartbroken at the way Mickey said it, like Mickey thought that what _he_ was, was actually the bigger problem – the greater burden between the two of them – and that what Ian was, was simply normal. Ian wanted at once to kiss him for that, to lay him out there on the table in front of everyone, to take him in all the ways he _could_ be taken, and everyone would know that together, they could be whatever they fucking wanted, and nothing else about them mattered.

“Maybe just one drink,” Ian said instead, making his mind up; he wanted to let go a bit, to have fun – fun with Mickey – and he knew he could manage it fine; he was well beyond the years of going crazy.

“Yea?” Mickey smiled, his teeth showing in the candlelight as he grabbed the drinks menu back, and summoned the waiter.

~

Mickey was nursing a glass of Scotch that was two measly spots away from being the cheapest on the list; Ian of course had expected him to get the most expensive one, referring to him as his _felon sugar daddy_ , but just because Mickey was rich didn’t mean he was stupid – Scotch was a selective art form in and of itself, and price didn’t always mean quality.

“And you tell me _I’m_ full of surprises,” Ian snorted, taking a sip of his craft beer; he had settled for the one thing on the drinks menu that had the lowest alcohol percentage, which Mickey found stupidly endearing.

“I just hope you get trashed off one beer,” Mickey joked, smiling into his glass as he took another sip; he meant it – Ian had talked to him high, so it was only fair.

“As long as you promise not to take advantage of me if I do...” Ian glanced at him then, their eyes meeting in that primal way that sent waves of heat throughout all parts of Mickey; he _wanted_ to take advantage of him, in all sorts of ways, but only because he knew Ian wanted him to, and would let him if they had the chance.

“I’d never take advantage of someone in such a state as the one you’re about to be in if you don’t slow down…” Ian was almost halfway done his glass, and at Mickey’s words, he stopped, setting the glass down and pushing it away from him.

“Fuck, you’re right.” Ian wiped the foam from his upper lip before reaching down again and sliding his hand up Mickey’s thigh, stopping just at the crease of Mickey’s groin. “I should at least try to make it through dinner.”

Mickey sniffed loudly, focusing on his sister so that he didn’t get a hard-on at the table; he knew what Ian had meant, and it wasn’t trying to get through dinner without getting drunk – it was both of them trying to get through dinner without fucking each other’s brains out.

“Stop,” Mickey said forcefully, not taking his eyes from the stage, and Ian let go, a quick hiss of air escaping his nose in amusement.

“Yes, boss,” he replied, and Mickey could see the wideness of his smile in his peripherals.

~

Ian could feel the beer already as he listened to Mandy, but not to a point he worried about; it was just that fuzz on the outer edges of his being that told him _something_ was happening – something warm, something fun – but nothing that was going to make him strip naked and dance to a song he says is his favourite but really wasn’t. It was edging closer to nine, and nobody had come with an actual menu yet; Ian assumed Mickey had planned for a private dinner once everyone had left.

_Un-fucking-believable._

Ian thought absently that Mandy must be closing out her set-list, as the songs were slowing down, becoming more spaced out as people started to trickle through the doors, the lounge emptying one table at a time. With the exit of every guest, Ian’s chest filled with just a little more nervousness, a little more excitement; it was childish, and silly, but the prospect of sitting alone with Mickey – of being out with him, eating dinner with him, being on a fucking _date_ with him – filled him with comfort, and somewhere inside his head, he was maybe starting to feel like Mickey thought he was worth it.

Mandy got up from her stool at exactly nine on the dot, a small round of applause echoing around the room from the people that were still left; she nodded in thanks, giving a slight bow before stepping down off the stage and strolling across the black tiled floor, her heels clicking purposefully as she made her way towards them, and Ian felt a little bit shy at her presence.

“Hey, Mick,” she said sweetly, leaning down and kissing him on the cheek; he reached an arm up in return, gently grasping her shoulder as she kissed him; it was such a gentle act that Mickey accepted so freely and openly that Ian almost felt like he was intruding; unlike with Iggy, Ian could tell immediately that Mandy held a special place in her brother’s heart. She glanced over at Ian then, her smile widening as she took in the sight of him. “You must be Ian,” she said, and reached out a hand. “I’m Mandy.” Ian’s breath caught in his throat for a second; she had used his name – his _actual_ name – and a worry fluttered throughout him at the hearing of it.

“It’s okay,” Mickey said suddenly, probably seeing Ian’s face contort into one of worry before grasping onto Ian’s hand – in full view of his sister – and squeezing it. “There’s nobody I trust more than her…” Ian looked at him, and if Mickey said it was okay, then it was, wasn’t it? Ian tried to smile at him, wondering absently just how much more she knew; if he had talked to her about him in detail; if he had told her anything more than just his name…

Was there really anything between them that Mickey thought was worth talking about to his sister?

 _There must be,_ he thought, chewing the inside of his cheek, because all he had wanted to do since that first night was talk to Lip about Mickey Milkovich, which he was planning to do first thing when he walked in the door in three weeks.

“Nice to meet you,” Ian sighed, reaching his hand out finally and shaking hers; it was small, dainty, but sweaty still from holding onto the microphone.

“I remember your brother,” she said randomly, taking Ian by surprise as she pushed her hair behind her ear, the maître d’ strolling over with her coat and helping her into it before handing her her purse. “Lip, I think?” Hearing his brother’s name from the mouth of a Milkovich didn’t sit well with him, but Ian tried to be polite, and trust in Mickey.

“Oh, really?”

“Yea.” She smiled, as if the memories were pleasant. “He was super smart.” She did up the buttons on her coat, and Ian watched her fingers fly just as easily through those buttons as Mickey’s did on his jackets. Lip _was_ smart – insanely so – and always had been, but considering the last time Mandy Milkovich would have seen him was when they were about six or seven, he thought Lip must have really made an impression. When her coat was on, she reached down, squeezing Mickey’s hand quickly. “Have fun, okay?” she said to him, shooting them both a smile before turning and heading towards the door. “Text me after!” Mickey glanced at Ian, rubbing absently at his hair as his face went red, as if he wished Ian hadn’t heard that last comment.

Once Mandy was out of sight, Ian took another sip of his beer.

“So you talk to your sister about me?” he asked, and although the idea made him feel things, it also annoyed him a bit, considering. “And you tell her my _real_ shit?” He tried not to let the annoyance come through, but knew a little reared its head as he stared into Mickey’s baby blues.

“Yea,” Mickey sighed then, quietly, chewing at his bottom lip. “Sorry.” Ian thought absently that that was probably the first time Mickey had ever apologized for anything in his entire life. “Mandy’s like, my best friend, I guess…” Ian thought again about Lip.

“I get it.” He smiled, and watched as the last group of patrons left the lounge, the waiters closing and locking the doors behind them.

“Just us now, man,” Mickey declared – trying to change the subject, Ian thought – smiling as he glanced around the empty room. The waiters went hastily around then, blowing out the candles one by one and clearing the tables as quickly as possible. Everybody was shuffling about, finishing their jobs for the night before all but one of the waiters left, leaving only him, Ian, Mickey, and the head chef in the kitchen.

“Ridiculous,” Ian whispered under his breath, watching the kerfuffle as their waiter came up to the table, leaning over it and leaving two menus in front of them; Mickey shot him a half-grin.

“Whatever you want, Mr. Milkovich,” the waiter said, before disappearing into the back, and they were left completely alone.

“I’m not even gunna ask.” Ian took a large sip of his beer, and watched as Mickey moved just a hair closer, his knee brushing up against Ian’s under the table, and Ian’s stomach tightened at the feeling of being in public with Mickey – of touching Mickey in public – and he fucking loved it.

Despite the flashy place and the utter thievery of the prices, Ian didn’t pay all that much attention to his food; it was great, sure, but he was more intent on Mickey, listening to him as he explained what it was like being a Milkovich, how they demanded a certain level of respect from each other and everyone else; what it was like in the business, and how Mickey lived a bit for the danger; how much he missed the South Side sometimes, and kind of wished in another life, he had gotten to stay, which Ian kind of wished he had, too, and maybe they would have been together from the beginning. Near the end of his rant it became clear to Ian that there was a single, overriding theme to Mickey, and it was simple – it was the same theme and dream that beat within his own chest: to be more than what they were.

“What would you do?” Ian asked suddenly, as Mickey pushed his empty plate across the table. “If you could get out, I mean…” Mickey eyed him, chewing the corner of his lip as he shook his head.

“I dunno, man. Not much I know in this life besides crime.” The thought made Ian’s heart ache a little, because unlike a lot of people apparently, Ian could see the potential in Mickey Milkovich.

“I know what you mean,” Ian confessed, and placed his hand back on Mickey’s thigh, just wanting to be sure of him as always, and not worrying now if anyone could see, because there was nobody there to notice. Mickey smiled at him, their eyes meeting in the candlelight, and the way it turned Mickey’s skin golden made Ian lean forward, placing his hand on Mickey’s jaw as he kissed him, softly, gently.

Ian considered talking about his own life – about his own family – but knew it wasn’t something Mickey was going to pry into; Ian knew that Mickey would wait until Ian was ready to tell him, and even then, if a hundred years passed, Ian thought Mickey still wouldn’t ask – he’d wait for Ian to trust him enough to let him in on his own.

Instead, Ian told Mickey about Caleb, the ex-boyfriend who had turned out to be a cheater, and even pushed him to try it with a woman once, which Mickey laughed at when Ian confessed he was sure he had PTSD from the ordeal. He told him about Trevor, whom he had loved – at least he thought he had – but that sometimes, things just didn’t work out. Mickey listened, making jokes, being sarcastic, but also asking a question here and there about Ian’s interest in being a firefighter like Caleb, about helping people; he asked about officer’s training, and what it was like in the army. What Mickey _didn’t_ ask, was what it was like being bipolar; how he found out; how he’d ended up where he did; and Ian thought he _liked_ him just a little bit more because of it – because it wasn’t an issue; it wasn’t something he needed to bring up. Mickey knew it was there, and that was enough; if it reared its head, then they could deal with it then, together; but until then, it wasn’t a part of who he was.

“I got ya somethin’,” Mickey put in suddenly, his face going red as he brushed at his eyebrow.

“Oh fuck, what now?” Ian said it teasingly, not harshly – he couldn’t be harsh with Mickey when it came to gestures of caring. A quick puff of air escaped Mickey’s nose in amusement, and he reached inside his inner jacket pocket, pulling out another iPhone that Ian had never seen before. The case was black, but different than his matte black work phone; this one had a subtle design on the case, like chains running down from top to bottom – it reminded Ian a bit of Mickey’s necklace.

“Here,” Mickey sighed, rubbing at his neck as he handed the phone to Ian. Ian took it, again turning it over in his hand before raising an eyebrow at his date.

“It’s for you.” Mickey sniffed loudly, and Ian knew he was uncomfortable. “I got one, too.” Mickey reached in his pocket, pulling out a matching iPhone, except this one had a reddy-orange case, the colour of which matched Ian’s hair exactly, and at once he understood.

“Mick,” he started, but trailed off, unsure of what to say; the gesture was so subtle – so personal – that it at once overtook all the rest; this was more important than the suit, than the dinner – this was something Mickey had done because he had listened –had _cared_ – had heard the way in which Ian wished they could be together more, somehow, in some way – to talk and text and maybe take things a little further than they already had, though it almost seemed like that was impossible, considering...

“Like my wallpaper?” Mickey asked suddenly, and Ian thought he was probably trying to give him a respite from actually having to express himself. Mickey clicked on his screen, and Ian glanced up; the lock screen was just a pre-set beach picture, but he punched in his pass-code and suddenly the home screen came into view, and it was Ian – it was Ian naked – and there were no apps blocking any part of him, and the sight made the heat rush into Ian’s belly, knowing full well that Mickey had probably looked at it a thousand times, had jerked off to it, and knowing that it was a secret between them that nobody would ever know about thrilled the fuck out of him.

“Let me see it,” he said, reaching out for Mickey’s phone; Mickey hesitated a moment, but finally gave it to him, his brows furrowing out of curiosity. Ian tapped through, opening the camera and flipping the screen around so he could take a selfie in his Tom Ford; when he got the perfect one, he saved it to Mickey’s lock screen. “There.” He grinned knowingly, eyeing Mickey as he handed it back. Mickey looked at it, chewed absently at his lip for a second, and slid the phone back into his pocket.

“What about you?” he asked, holding out his hand for Ian’s phone so he could do the same in return, but Ian had a better idea.

“Wait.” Ian pulled out his personal phone; it was going to be a struggle, he thought absently, to try and keep three fucking phones in order, but he didn’t give a shit. Without Mickey seeing, Ian sent the photo of Mickey to his new phone, quickly saving it with a few taps to both his lock screen, and the home screen. No, it wasn’t Mickey naked – not yet – but it was almost more beautiful to him. When he was done, he turned the phone, showing the screen to Mickey. Mickey just stared for a moment, those perfectly comical eyebrows coming together as he looked at himself driving – left hand on the wheel – and Ian could see the gears working as he mentally went over their nights together. Suddenly his eyes narrowed a bit, and a small smile pulled up the corner of his mouth as the memory sunk in.

“You were just so…” Ian started, clicking the screen off and shoving his Mickey phone in along with his personal one. “Sudden.” The word had always been appropriate, Ian thought, when it came to Mickey – there had been nothing, and then all at once there was him.

“That’s a little bit creepy, Gallagher,” Mickey said then, and Ian was about to argue his case when Mickey leaned in, taking Ian by surprise as he pressed his warm mouth back onto his, his tongue at once finding Ian’s; after a second, he pulled away just a hair, so their lips were still just touching as he whispered, “but really fucking hot,” and Ian felt the blood begin to move south, tasting Mickey’s Scotch on his breath.

“I’m gunna get a hard-on if you keep that up,” Ian whispered back, and pulled away as the waiter reappeared, taking their plates from off the table. Mickey shifted uncomfortably in his seat, and Ian smiled to himself.

~

“So the phones are just for us?” Ian asked, standing up from the booth and fumbling for a second as he did up the button of his jacket; Mickey could tell he wasn’t used to the formalities of wearing a suit, but the way he was trying was hot as fuck.

“Yea,” he confirmed, doing up his own button in a move so swift it wasn’t even a thought. “I only have your number, you only have mine, and it stays that way.” Mickey didn’t have to worry much about this, he knew Ian wouldn’t be telling anyone, and he had ensured there wasn’t a paper trail of the purchase. “I got ‘em this morning,” he continued, straightening his sweater after sitting for so long. “Paid cash, and I’ll take care of the bills.” Ian rolled his eyes, and despite trying to be subtle about it, Mickey saw, and knew Ian was biting his tongue to keep from saying anything.

Ian reached down then, grabbing the glass of beer from off the table that was still half-full and chugging it in one quick go; Mickey eyed him, his eyebrows shooting up.

“Was that a good idea?” he asked, and knew already it probably wasn’t.

“Fuck it,” Ian spat, and strode purposefully towards the door before turning back, nearly tripping over a chair. “I want to do something South Side.”

“Is that so?”

“Yup.” Ian pushed through the door, straightening his suit jacket and open collar out in the corridor as he waited for Mickey, and in the moment, it took everything Mickey had to keep from climbing him like a tree, he looked _that_ good. “I have an idea,” Ian continued, and the look in his eyes made Mickey curious, and he wondered if they were about to get into some kind of mischief, like two kids on South Wallace in the heat of the summer.

Mickey pulled into his garage, parking quickly beside the Audi before they both stepped out, heading directly for the exit that would take them out into the city.

“You sure you wanna do this, Gallagher?” he asked, but Ian only smiled in return. Mickey noticed that Ian had seemed happier in the last ten minutes – was smiling more, and had sung along with the radio on their way home – and he knew that the beer must be kicking in.

They stepped out onto the street, Mickey at once eyeing the sky; it was clouding over – the low-hanging clouds that glowed from the city lights reminding him of the first night he had picked up Ian – and he knew it was going to rain within the next half-hour. It was just closing in on eleven, and he figured if they were going to do this, they should probably do it fast.

“Down here?” Ian inquired suddenly, and pointed down a turn-off between two buildings; Mickey squinted as he glanced down the alley, but didn’t see what he was looking for.

“No.” He had an idea of where to go already, having passed it a thousand times, and he pointed to the pull-off just a couple blocks south, grinning. “There.” Ian nodded, strolling off in the direction of the back lot with just the smallest wobble in his step; Mickey watched him for a moment – the way his hands fit inside his pockets; the way that drunken smile played on the edges of his lips – and he wished suddenly that maybe in another life, they could have been like this as kids – as teenagers – spending their nights together, sneaking around, doing bad things and doing good things, everything making them feel alive, and like maybe nothing besides each other would ever give them that same thrill again.

Once they were in the lot, Mickey found what he was looking for fairly quickly; it was a van – dark blue, inconspicuous, and an older model; there was a phone number for some business on the side, but the back windows were dark tinted, and the front passenger window had been left cracked, even with the impending weather.

“This one,” he said, and grinned, glancing around to see if anyone besides themselves was lurking about; there were no cameras, which is why he had chosen it. Mickey shoved his fingers into the opening and pushed harshly, forcing the window down just enough that he could reach in and pull up the lock; he braced himself for the sound of an alarm when he opened the door, but to his relief, nothing happened. At once, that old, familiar feeling of crime came rushing back into his bones, his hairs standing on end in warning as evolution took over.

“Hurry up,” Ian hissed, coming up behind Mickey then and wrapping his arms around his waist, pulling him hard against his hips as Mickey leaned across the seats, trying to reach over and unlock the driver’s side door. Ian’s dick was pressed up against his ass, and the feeling made Mickey even more aware of their surroundings.

“Take it easy,” Mickey chuckled, standing, and turned just as Ian grabbed him in an unusually strong hold, laughing against his ear, into his hair.

“Fuck you smell so good,” Ian whispered, and bit at Mickey’s earlobe.

_Yup_ , Mickey thought, pushing Ian’s arms down. _Fucking trashed._

“Get in, you fucking waste case.” Mickey tried to sound serious, but he laughed as Ian undid the button of his jacket and saluted him before sliding in.

Mickey jogged around to the other side, glancing around once more to ensure nobody was looking before hopping in, pulling off the panel under the wheel and immediately finding the wires. Unfortunately, it wasn’t like riding a bike, and he fumbled for a moment, trying to remember which wires went where and what to strip.

“Here,” Ian spat, and leaned over, his hands groping around as he smacked at Mickey’s to get them out of the way before grabbing at the wires.

“Can you leave the stealing to the experts?” Mickey spat, and was about to push Ian back into his seat when the car’s engine suddenly spat once, twice, and abruptly came to life; he just eyed Ian as he leaned back in his seat, shrugging his shoulders in the most overly-excessive manner, and Mickey felt only the smallest bit annoyed.

“I _am_ an expert,” Ian smiled, and though his words weren’t slurred, it wasn’t hard to tell he was on his way to a good time. Mickey had to think about something else as he backed the van out of the spot, inexplicably turned on by the way Ian had done that in such a quick way, even in the state he was in.

_Once a South Side kid_ …

“Where to?” Mickey asked, pulling the van out onto the streets, just as a few drops of rain began to fall on the windshield. Ian glanced at him, his head flopping back against the window as he stared at him with those eyes he made when Mickey knew he wanted all of him. It was beautifully ironic, Mickey thought absently, how Ian was sitting there in his ten-thousand dollar suit, surrounded by dirt and dust in someone’s old van they had just stolen.

“Home,” Ian said simply in reply, and just by the look in his eye, Mickey knew at once what he meant. A wave of something like comfort went through him then, warming his bones, as if that one word from Ian’s mouth had suddenly taken their relationship – however simple or complex it may be – to another level; he was taking him to the one place that meant there was absolute trust between them, and Mickey turned the car south in answering, heading directly for South Wallace.

Ian flipped through the radio stations as they drove, finally settling on something loud and upbeat; he danced a little in his seat, his body moving in that same, slow, rhythmic way it did at the club, and Mickey kept glancing at him out the corner of his eye, watching his stomach move, his hips, his eyes close as if he was losing himself in the sound. Mickey gripped the wheel a little tighter, feeling that familiar sensation of being in control return to him, though when he was with Ian, it was never as dominant as it was when he was alone.

They passed a few cop cars as they cruised south, Mickey’s heart squeezing just the smallest bit at the anticipation of being caught as they headed over that same bridge – down those same streets – he had taken only a handful of nights before as he headed to the Fairy Tale alone, before coming back with _someone_. Despite the tightness in his chest at the sight of the pigs, he wasn’t worried; he knew nobody would be missing this van until morning, and even fucking then…

“You’re hot when you drive,” Ian mumbled suddenly, and Mickey shot a glance in his direction; he was leaning against the door now, body still, staring like he always did; but this time it wasn’t so subtle, the tipsy smile on his face making his eyes narrow into slits.

“That why you took that creepy picture?”

“Mmm,” Ian moaned, closing his eyes as if thinking of it; the sound made Mickey’s balls ache, and he was glad to have a distraction as they finally turned into South Side. “Few more blocks,” Ian said, and his eyes suddenly widened, becoming more alert as they pulled through the familiar streets, the houses becoming smaller, daintier, and ramshackle.

“Left or right?” Mickey asked, coming up to South Wallace. Ian sniffed loudly, rubbing a hand over his face before taking a deep breath, and Mickey thought he was trying to sober up.

‘Left.” Ian bit absently at his nails, fidgeting nervously, and Mickey had never seen him look so vulnerable – not even when they were fucking. “But pull up over there, by the red brick house.”

Mickey did as he was told, parking the van by the sidewalk and turning off the engine. The sudden quiet was unnerving, and his hands felt tingly from the vibrations of the old engine through the steering wheel. Ian was glancing down the street, and Mickey followed his gaze; he was looking at a small blue and white house towards the end of the street, beside an empty lot; there was a small lamp in the front yard, surrounded by a chain-link fence, and something about it, Mickey thought – the simplicity, the tiny frame – didn’t suit Ian at all; and yet, everything about it still called his name.

“Is that it?” Mickey asked, reaching out suddenly and taking Ian’s hand, pulling it gently away from his mouth as he chewed at his thumbnail. Ian nodded, smiling just a little at the sight of his home. “How long since you’ve been back?” Ian shrugged absently, and to Mickey’s surprise, he didn’t make a move to get out of the van.

“Couple months, not long.” Mickey glanced back over at the little house, just in time to see the front door open, and a guy with short hair – probably around his own age – step out onto the porch; he pulled a cigarette from his shirt pocket and lit it before sitting on the front steps in the soft falling rain.

“Lip,” Ian whispered, the quiet way in which he said it causing Mickey to glance at his porcelain face; he recognized the name as the one Mandy had mentioned – Ian’s brother.

“I can stay here if you wanted to go…”

“No,” Ian interrupted, his quiet smile widening as the front door opened again and a red-headed girl came out onto the porch, sitting down with Lip in conversation. “Not yet.” His eyes met Mickey’s then, and although they were still full of fuzziness and beer, the looseness and uncaring demeanor had vanished. “Let’s go,” Ian sighed, squeezing Mickey’s hand before letting it go. Mickey thought for a moment he had meant inside – to the house, to his family – but he grasped Ian’s meaning when Ian nodded in the direction from which they had come.

Mickey put the van in gear without asking anything more, turning it around before pulling back down the street and around the corner, under the tracks of the El.

“Park in there,” Ian said suddenly, pointing to a small dirt pull-off under the tracks. Mickey obeyed – curious as to the detour – before turning the van off. He could hear the distant sounds of music coming from some house a block or two away, and the sound – mingled with the light tapping of rain on the metal roof – gave Mickey déjà vu, as if he had done this all before. Mickey turned, leaning against his door as he looked at Ian, small wisps of red hair escaping his gel and falling over his forehead.

“What now, Gallagher?”

“I want to fuck you.” Ian’s face flushed at the admission, even more so than it already was with drink. “Get in the back.”

Mickey raised an eyebrow at him, the blood rushing at once to his lower half.

“I think you’re a little drunk…”

“No,” Ian interrupted, and leaned towards him, his eyes at once clearing as he opened them, purposefully looking so far into Mickey that Mickey was sure he could see his past, and maybe even his future. “Get in the back.” With that Ian pressed his lips to Mickey’s, sliding his hand over and up his bandaged thigh until it was resting on Mickey’s dick.

~

Mickey squeezed between the front seats, making his way into the back; Ian followed, though the small space was a little more difficult for him to maneuver; he was sobering up enough that everything was clear and in focus, but there was still just that bit of softness around his edges that made him smile a bit more than usual, and the hunger inside of him a bit more insatiable.

Ian watched as Mickey knelt down – his head barely clearing the roof in the back of the van – and their eyes met, the blue intensity of Mickey’s gaze sending sparks within him. Ian thought absently that every time they found themselves here again – kneeling and ready – there was a new, unknown look in Mickey’s eyes, and he wondered if the same thing was reflected back in his own, and whether Mickey took as much pleasure in discovering these new parts of Ian as much as he did Mickey.

There was something about this moment – this moment in the back of a stolen van just a couple blocks from his home on the South Side – and Ian knew all at once – without actually knowing how – that this was it; _this_ was the time that was going to change everything. Maybe it was the way he felt, or the way Mickey _did_ look at him; maybe it was the way that the _like_ in his chest ached at the sight of him, and felt maybe like it was something a little bit more; either way, he crawled forward, coming close enough to Mickey that he could breathe him in like he needed to.

Rain began to pour down outside, its intensity increasing as it pelted the van in a harsh rhythm that blurred the world beyond the windows, and it was suddenly just the two of them.

“Come here,” Ian whispered, and there was no sudden need in his words; it was quiet, and this time, _this_ time, it was going to be slow, too. Mickey leaned forward – not having to stretch to reach Ian’s mouth in the small space – and set his lips gently to his; Ian had half been expecting that sudden urgency to be present in Mickey, as it always had been – the way his mouth usually opened immediately to his, his tongue pressing against his own as if seeking an answer for something; instead, Mickey’s lips were pressed together, barely parted at all, and it was a simple kiss – a beautiful kiss – filled with much more than all their other nights combined. Ian thought – as Mickey trailed his hands across his neck – that maybe Mickey knew, too, that everything between them was about to change.

They kissed quietly, the sounds of their mouths mingling with the tapping of rain around them; everything was wet and alive as he grasped at Mickey’s jaw, the back of his head, and Ian felt the heat in him rise, his cock starting to harden at the simple touching of Mickey’s lips to his. Their breath was slowly quickening, and Ian opened his mouth a little more, pushing a little harder against Mickey’s, and Mickey’s opened more in return, their tongues finally coming together, tasting each other, flicking against teeth, sucking at lips.

Ian realized all at once, as he tasted Mickey’s tongue, that he had never actually felt this way – he had never felt this soft; he wanted now to be gentle with Mickey, to take control away from him in a way that wasn’t immediate and necessary; he wanted to take control in the quiet of the night; in the dark when it wasn’t primal, but simple; where Mickey would simply surrender to him out of want, like it was second nature. Ian wanted to tame him there in the rain, like the wild creature he had once considered him to be – Mickey, this feral animal full of anger, toughness, sarcasm, and facetiousness; but also unexpected in the most beautiful of ways: protective, loyal, kind, caring; Ian wanted to have him in all the ways Mickey could be had; he had had him in anger; he had had him out of necessity; now, he wanted to have him out of love.

Ian pulled away from Mickey’s lips, and they stared into each other’s eyes as Ian reached his hands down, undoing his shirt buttons one by one, their breath mingling together as they looked so far into each other that Ian was suddenly afraid that Mickey might see the things he worried about when he was alone at night; but this was Mickey – Mickey who thought he had bigger problems than Ian did – and the realization made Ian’s fingers move just a little faster, his own eyes stare just a little deeper.

“I think I like you a lot,” Ian admitted then, not even realizing he was going to say it until it was out, and the dampness from the rain and their breath reached his bare chest then as his shirt finally opened, and he wasn’t ashamed of the admission. One corner of Mickey’s mouth pulled up just a little, and his eyes scanned briefly over Ian’s chest and stomach before he glanced back up.

“Same,” Mickey said simply, and it was barely a breath, but Ian heard it, his heart surging at the truth of his words as the heat in his cheeks brought an overwhelming smile along with it, and suddenly Ian wasn’t sure if he had even been drunk from the beer in the first place, or if he had simply been drunk on Mickey. Mickey leaned in again then, his lips coming back to Ian’s as he reached his hands inside Ian’s sleeves, pushing his expensive shirt and jacket off his arms and onto the dusty floor of the van.

“Take this off,” Ian whispered, eyes closed, mouth against Mickey’s, and returned the favour by pushing off Mickey’s grey jacket before reaching down and grabbing the hem of his sweater and pulling it off over his head; the action caused Mickey’s hair to stand suddenly on end, a piece escaping over his forehead, and Ian chuckled at the sight, petting it back into place as Mickey kissed at his neck, at his clavicle. “You’re so fucking beautiful, Mick,” he said again, finally, rubbing his hands over Mickey’s shoulders, feeling the softness of his skin, the damp that was seeping into both of them, and he meant it; his beauty actually hurt him, like an ache that was born out of magnificent things instead of sadness.

“Come here,” Mickey whispered, the echoing of Ian’s words sending Ian’s flesh into goose bumps as they both went for each other’s mouths, their chests coming together with a subtle thud as Mickey wrapped his arms around Ian’s sacrum; they were warm – moist from the breath and the rain – but the sudden coldness of Mickey’s gold chain against Ian’s chest made him exhale a breath full of pleasure as Mickey’s mouth opened all the way, consuming Ian’s at once with that familiar hunger.

Ian pushed his hands through Mickey’s hair, feeling it against his palms; he listened to the wetness escaping their lips and pulled his hands forward, letting his thumbs rest on either side of Mickey’s mouth so he could keep him there, hold him in place as his tongue went inside him, tasting the last echoes of that Scotch. A small moan escaped Mickey’s lips then, and Ian at once needed more of him.

“Lay down,” he panted, and shuffled sideways, allowing Mickey to turn and lower himself gently back onto the floor; Ian had the sudden, random thought that he was thankful the van was carpeted before he simply stopped, looking down at Mickey as he kneeled above him; he was only naked from head to waist – his gold chain laying haphazardly across his neck as he looked up into his eyes – but his grey suit pants were hugging those massive thighs, and Ian could see that Mickey was as hard and ready as he was, and the sight was one of the most beautiful things he’d ever seen. Ian hitched his arms suddenly under Mickey’s knees and pulled him harshly forward, causing Mickey to laugh in that quiet way as Ian was at once between his thighs, his own cock pressed up against Mickey’s ass. Mickey lifted his legs, wrapping them firmly around Ian’s waist. “Fuck Mickey,” was all he could manage to say as he fell forward, his fingers intertwining with Mickey’s as he pushed his hands harshly above Mickey’s head, and his mouth came down so hard this time that Ian was sure he broke someone’s skin as he tasted a tiny hint of blood.

They were kissing again, fiercely this time, biting and tonguing at each other, and the sounds of their mouths and the spit set Ian’s blood on fire, his dick getting even harder and pressing against Mickey’s in such a way that he at once needed to get his pants off, the tightness becoming too much of a hindrance. He pushed himself up, tearing himself away as his breath came faster; he undid his buckle in record time, pushing the waists of his boxers and pants down before having to sit back on his bare ass to pull them off entirely in the small space.

“Slow down, Ian,” Mickey panted then, his hand coming up to rub absently at his own chest, his nipples. Ian glanced at his face, the sound of his own name on Mickey’s lips making his cock twitch, and he grinned, trying to control his breathing suddenly, his thoughts; Mickey was right, at this rate, he wouldn’t last a minute. Mickey picked his head up from off the floor then, glancing hungrily at Ian’s dick, which sent a tightness and warmth into his pelvis; Ian wanted to start stroking it immediately, to slide it into Mickey immediately, but instead he came forward once more, needing to simply feel him against his skin; he squeezed his way back between Mickey’s thighs, laughing a little as Mickey hooked them around his waist once again before harshly pulling him back down onto him. This time he placed his hands onto Mickey’s face, his hands consuming his jaw as he licked at his lips, tongued his philtrum, and Mickey’s hands came up in answering, finding their way to the sides of Ian’s face. Ian’s dick was pressing into Mickey’s belly, and he moved slightly, letting small thrusts escape his hips as he rubbed it up along his skin, down over the soft hair, and the feeling sent a quiver throughout him and he moaned into Mickey’s mouth.

_This is it_ , he thought again, a smile pushing its way across his lips as he tasted his Mickey.

~

Ian smiled suddenly against Mickey’s mouth, and Mickey wasn’t sure if it was from simple pleasure, or an errant thought, but he smiled back in answering, soft air escaping their noses as they laughed quietly, their lips unable to figure out how to stay together as they grinned against each other. Ian’s cock was rubbing along the centre of Mickey’s belly, along his dark trail of hair, over his belly button, leaving a small wet trail of precum as it went, and the sight of it – the coolness of it – made Mickey’s own leak inside his boxers, and he needed at once to be free.

“Take my pants off,” Mickey breathed, his breath hitching in his throat; he didn’t know why, but he got the feeling that Ian wanted to do all the work tonight, like maybe he _needed_ to – needed to possess him in every way he could be possessed; what was weird was that Mickey wanted to let him; he _wanted_ him to take control, because nobody besides himself ever did; more than that, Ian was the one thing in the world that caused his guard to go down, and Mickey fucking rejoiced in the new feeling of being taken care of.

Ian pushed himself up, scooting backwards so that he could reach Mickey’s buckle and undo it before shifting all the way back against the doors and pulling his pants off in one swift move; Mickey glanced up as his own dick sprang free, so hard that it simply fell back against his stomach; Ian eyed it, shoving Mickey’s pants into the corner with his own, and Mickey had the random, errant thought that there was over twenty-thousand dollars worth of clothes piled there in the dust, and he didn’t give a flying fuck.

Ian bent his head down then, tonguing and biting suddenly at Mickey’s thighs, trailing wet, sucking kisses up each one, tasting the skin around his bandage before placing that one, single kiss on top of the stitches like he always did.

“Why do you always do that?” Mickey moaned, his eyes closing as his head fell back at the pressure, the feeling; he didn’t even care why, but the question just came out. Ian made a small _hmhmhm_ sound against his upper thigh as he chuckled at the question, and the vibration sent tingles into Mickey’s balls. “Oh fuck...”

Ian put his hand out then, dragging his palm along the underside of Mickey’s dick as it lay flat on his stomach; it was gentle, tender, and sent a wave of pleasure through his abdomen as Ian reached the head, thumbing that most sensitive spot on the tip, causing a drop of precum to work its way out. Ian touched at it, massaging it down and around before bringing his head up to taste it, to lick at Mickey’s tip.

“God you taste good,” Ian whispered, his breath warm against it and Mickey shuddered as goose bumps raised their way across his skin, and he touched again at his nipples, pinching them the smallest bit.

Mickey’s eyes met Ian’s then as Ian took him into his mouth, and the look he probably had in his own eyes, Mickey knew, was no longer one of just wanting to watch, it was wanting to watch Ian – the man he _liked_ a lot – do things to him that he had never felt, and never known. That hardened ribcage within his chest softened when he looked at him, and the relief he felt at being out of control in the moment was all-consuming.

Mickey thrust his hips up then in slow, rhythmic movements, pushing his way into Ian’s mouth, feeling Ian’s throat contract as he gagged when he went too far, and fucking loving both the sound and the feeling; it was slow, methodic, but after only a minute or two, Mickey felt the warmth of release building within him, his muscles tightening as a small _ungh_ escaped from between his lips, and Ian’s mouth tightened around him for just a split second more before he suddenly pulled off with the wet sound of breaking suction.

“Not yet,” he said, and wiped his mouth. “I want to try something.” Mickey opened his eyes, staring at the roof as he let a long hiss of air escape his mouth as he calmed himself, letting the blood settle just a bit before raising an eyebrow at Ian.

“Oh yea?” he panted, rubbing a hand over his eyes as he tried to think of something else. “What’s that?”

“Get on top,” Ian demanded, rolling suddenly sideways off of Mickey so that he was on his back, feet planted firmly on the floor. Mickey smiled, taking a moment to breathe through his interrupted orgasm before he obeyed, pushing himself up and straddling his thighs over Ian’s waist, those red-haired, freckled knees propping up against his back, Ian’s cock hard and ready under his own. Ian reached up, pulling Mickey’s face down to his as he kissed him once more, slowly again, as if trying to rein them both back in. “Lean forward a bit,” he whispered, grabbing the base of his dick, and Mickey knew he wanted to be inside of him. Mickey pushed himself up just enough so that Ian could once again spit into his hand, rubbing it generously over himself along with a clear string of precum that had been working its way down. Mickey spat in his own hand in return, making a mental note to remember lube next time before reaching around and rubbing it against his opening. A hiss of air escaped Ian’s lips as he watched him, and he reached out with his free hand, pushing Mickey’s fingers around his hole with his own, as if guiding him. The sensation of both their fingers on his ass made Mickey’s balls contract. “Ready?” Ian asked then, and Mickey leaned forward the smallest bit in response, nodding, bracing his hands hard against Ian’s chest.

Ian grabbed the tip of his dick and pushed it firmly against him, teasing it around the outside, rubbing it up and down his perineum before pressing slowly, slowly, until Mickey felt the expansion and tightness as Ian’s head made its way in. Ian pushed in and out gradually, bit by bit, until Mickey moaned loudly as all of Ian finally filled him.

“Jesus Christ, Ian,” Mickey exhaled, sitting back onto Ian’s dick, and the pain mingled together with pleasure as he sat there for a moment, letting himself adjust to the fullness.

“You’re so fucking tight, Mickey.” Ian’s head fell back, his eyes closing as he bit at his lip, as if he was trying not to cum instantly; the thought made Mickey grin, and he leaned forward the smallest bit, letting Ian slide out once, and back in; Ian’s eyes flew open at the movement. “No fuck wait Mickey,” he spat, loudly, his hands flying up to hold Mickey’s waist in place, and Mickey laughed. “Shut up or I’ll cum.” Despite enjoying the idea, Mickey _did_ wait – he wanted this to be better – to be different – and if that meant taking their time, then he wasn’t going to move a fucking muscle.

They sat there for what Mickey thought was at least a couple minutes, Ian’s dick all the way inside of him, and Mickey closed his eyes, feeling Ian’s heartbeat beneath his palms, still pressed firmly against his chest; it was slowing, and Mickey risked a shift in his bodyweight as he leaned his head down, licking at Ian’s lips.

“Ready?” he inquired, and loved that it was his turn to ask that. Ian opened his eyes, glancing up at him with a look so soft, it made Mickey want to start fucking him at once.

“I think so.” Mickey reached down with his right hand then, about to grab a hold of his dick when Ian’s hand shot out suddenly and stopped him. “No, no hands,” he said, and Mickey felt his brows furrow.

“What?”

“No hands.” Ian repeated, and reached up, grabbing at Mickey’s fingers and placing them back onto his chest, one hand over each nipple. “Just ride me.” Mickey looked at him for a moment – his breath coming slowly as he considered this – before again raising himself up, and back down, letting Ian slip in and out of him in a slow rhythm that hit his prostate in a sudden wave of pleasure.

“Fuck,” he hissed, his weight pressing all at once down onto Ian’s chest, and Ian placed his hands suddenly over Mickey’s, as if holding them there.

“Oh Jesus Mick,” Ian whimpered, as Mickey slowly increased his speed, and it almost sounded like he was going to cry. Without warning, Ian was suddenly thrusting with him, his hips coming upwards into Mickey, causing his dick to go so fucking deep that Mickey stopped moving, leaning forward just enough that Ian could do the work on his own and thrust upwards into him at his own pace. Mickey sat like that for a moment, wanting so badly to take his hand and touch at his cock, feel the precum Ian was forcing out, feel that pleasure build within him as his balls tightened and he could cum in that familiar way he was used to; but Ian held his hands in place, the movements becoming so hard that Mickey was pulsing forward suddenly with each impact, and all at once his dick – pressed against Ian’s abs – started moving with him, sliding its way along his stomach the smallest bit and sending heat throughout Mickey’s body.

“Holy fuck,” he whined, his voice reaching that higher pitch as Ian tightened his grip on Mickey’s hands, his hips thrusting upwards with a sound and feeling that made Mickey’s stomach squeeze, his ass muscles contract, and the sudden feeling of tightness made Ian moan. Out of instinct, Mickey began to rock back onto Ian’s dick as he thrust into him, allowing his own to move faster and further along Ian’s stomach, over the dents in his abs, and all at once that feeling of release was at Mickey’s door. “I’m gunna fucking cum,” he quivered, and wasn’t even sure how he managed to get the words out as Ian’s cock pressed hard against his prostate in the perfect rhythm, the head of his own dick moving up Ian’s stomach once, twice, three times, before he suddenly squeezed Ian’s chest so hard that Ian let out an ‘ _oh Jesus fucking Christ Mickey’_ as Mickey came, Ian pushing so fucking deep into him that four massive strings of cum shot up Ian’s stomach as the spasms sent Mickey into another fucking world, his eyes pressing closed so hard that he saw stars as the release racked him entirely, and he came louder than he ever had in his life.

Ian slowed suddenly, his own thrusts becoming a heartbeat before he stopped entirely and Mickey opened his eyes, coming back down to earth; Ian’s face was redder than it had ever been; there was a sheen of sweat all over him; his chest was heaving as if he’d just been saved from drowning; and his fingers were wrapped tightly around Mickey’s hands, under which were dark red marks where Mickey’s fingers had dug in harshly, and Mickey knew there would be bruises. Mickey was suddenly aware of the after-effects of Ian’s cock pulsing inside him, and he realized absently that Ian, too, had cum, at the exact same moment Mickey had. They were breathing so loudly, so fast, that neither of them said anything, their chests heaving together as the dampness in the van reached the point where the inside of the glass was fogging over, and everything, everywhere, was wet.

~

Ian closed his eyes, trying his best to breathe as he let his head fall back, feeling Mickey’s weight against him in the most beautiful of ways; he had never cum so hard or so much in his entire life, and at his release – when all of Mickey had tightened around his dick – he felt like he had given Mickey all of him, and Mickey had taken it, like he always did, without question or hesitation. He had never done that with someone before, and he wanted suddenly to tell Mickey that he loved him; that he needed him; that he wanted to stay inside of him forever, feeling his warmth and unyielding grip consume him as if Mickey’s own body could protect him from everything, including himself; but whether this was from adrenaline, serotonin, endorphins, hormones, or if it was real – Ian didn’t know, and he didn’t really care; all he knew was that he wanted Mickey against him then, to feel the slickness of his skin against his own, and he reached up blindly, not even opening his eyes as he grabbed his face and pulled him down, letting Mickey’s head fall hard against his chest as they breathed together, their ribcages heaving in the rain as Ian shifted slightly, pulling out of Mickey as his cum dripped slowly down onto his thighs, and Ian smiled, placing a single kiss on the top of Mickey’s head as they melted into one, and he held him, letting Mickey be free for just a moment longer.

Ian wasn’t sure how long they lay like that, together in the damp off of South Wallace, but it was long enough for his breathing to slow, his mind to wander, and for him to almost fall asleep with Mickey right there in his arms.

“We should probably go,” Mickey said then, breaking the peaceful quiet; and it was so soft, so breathy, that Ian was sure Mickey _had_ been sleeping, right there on his chest.

“I don’t want to,” he sighed, sounding more child-like than he had meant to, and tightened his arms around Mickey’s back, bringing his face down so he could breathe him in, and let that smell consume him; keep him alive until they could see each other again.

“I know.” Mickey brought his head up then, biting at Ian’s neck as he sucked kisses onto his skin, running his lips up along his jaw before reaching his mouth, and Ian felt his nipples harden at their softness. He opened his mouth to him, which was becoming as easy as breathing; there had never been an awkwardness kissing Mickey, and Ian thought that their mouths – just like their hands – had been waiting for each other – waiting to open and intertwine completely with someone safe; someone who reminded them each of home, and of what they could be.

~

Mickey hopped out of the van, his legs actually feeling ridiculously weak after the explosion of his release; he left the side door open so some of the moisture could escape, and he felt his face redden at the sight, knowing full well what they had just done inside, and rejoicing in the new sensations Ian had helped him discover. He slipped his jacket on, stepping aside so Ian could step out, his sudden height and presence making Mickey step back.

“What time is it?” Ian asked absently, and Mickey shrugged in answering, pulling his Ian phone out from his jacket pocket.

“Just after one.” Mickey met Ian’s eyes then and they both grinned at the knowledge – they had laid there together for well over an hour, and even so, Mickey thought it hadn’t been nearly long enough. Mickey sniffed to break the silence, and glanced away down the street, trying to hide his face just as a two men came around the corner down the block – walking towards them rather purposefully – bottles of beer in their hands. Mickey glanced down at himself, brushing the dust off his suit at their appearance, and Ian did the same. The men glanced at them as they passed, and Mickey looked down, straightening his cuff absently; he was sure if they saw his face, they would know exactly what they had just done; not that he was ashamed of it, but this was the South Side in the middle of the night…

“Hey,” Ian said softly, smiling at him as he reached towards him, but didn’t quite touch him. “It’s fine.” The men strolled by, and Mickey felt his heart slow.

“Fags,” a voice said suddenly, and Mickey turned immediately at the word, the heat in his face rising as he saw one of the men walking backwards, looking at them with an arrogant smile on his face as he sipped casually at his beer. Mickey automatically stepped forward, remembering absently he didn’t have his Glock, but he didn’t fucking need it, he could use his fists just as effectively; he only got about two steps though before Ian suddenly overtook him, his long strides seeming to have more purpose than Mickey felt in his entire body.

“The fuck you say?” Ian asked suddenly, lifting his chin in questioning, and the men stopped, the other turning towards them as Ian approached.

“Fags,” he said again, shrugging, as if it were nothing, and before Mickey had a chance to call his name, Ian reached out with his left hand, just touching the man’s chest before he landed a right hook so hard that the guy’s beer flew out of his hand, glass smashing all over the sidewalk as it foamed and went everywhere; he fell instantly, and Mickey bit his lip at the sight, his eyebrows shooting up. The second one cocked his arm back then, ready to throw a Hail Mary, and Mickey went forward, needing at once to be with Ian; but before he could get to him, Ian dipped out of the way – grabbing the guy’s wrist as it sailed passed his head –and turned suddenly, jamming his right hand into his elbow as his body shifted downwards so that he twisted awkwardly and the guy literally fell over Ian’s back, like some karate type shit; a loud crack rang out as he hit the pavement, and Mickey knew instantly that Ian had broken the dude’s arm. Mickey just stood there for a moment, watching; he had wanted to go to Ian’s aid, but he realized belatedly – with such a profound sense of amusement – that Ian didn’t really need it; both men were on the ground, and Ian was standing over top of them, straightening his suit jacket.

“Assholes,” Ian spat, and turned, sauntering his way back towards Mickey, that drunken grin returning and pulling up the corner of his lips. Mickey glanced at him; glanced at the men on the ground; then back at Ian, and smiled so fucking widely he was sure his face was going to split.

“Tough guy, eh?” he laughed, and Ian was on him at once, throwing his arms over Mickey’s shoulders as he pulled his head forward, kissing the tip of his nose.

“If my balls weren’t completely empty,” Ian hissed, biting at Mickey’s mouth. “I’d fuck you again right in front of them.” Mickey kissed him back at the thought, letting Ian’s tongue in for just a moment.

“I’d fucking let you.”

They cruised slowly back into the city, both of them just enjoying each other’s quiet; Ian’s hand was on Mickey’s, but he was glancing away out the window, clearly thinking long and hard about _something_. Mickey didn’t want to pry, besides, he was too busy thinking his own thoughts: he had a meeting Friday night at the club to go over plans for New York; he usually had to carry back at least a million in cash after these trips, and he wondered this time how he was going to do it, and if he’d get caught. There was also another drug run coming up in a few days – weed this time – and he wondered if he would have to go instead of Iggy, despite his leg, and also if he was going to get caught. Besides those things – all of which were a walk in the park – he was fairly certain he was falling in love for the first time in his entire life, and that scared the shit out of him. Mickey risked a peek at Ian at the thought, watching the way the lights from the street lamps illuminated his face golden, and he was actually going to miss him maybe, when he was gone in a few weeks.

“Do you want to come with me?” he asked suddenly, and was surprised he even managed it. Ian looked at him, his brows furrowing as he tried to understand his meaning. “To New York, I mean…” Mickey wasn’t even sure how that would work, but he knew he could find a way, he always did. The corner of Ian’s mouth pulled up a little in a soft smile as he looked at him, and he rubbed his thumb absently over Mickey’s knuckles.

“I can’t” he admitted, and Mickey felt his ribs tighten.

“It’s fine, I just…”

“I’m going home,” Ian interrupted, as if trying to reassure him, and Mickey met his eyes, understanding settling in his chest. Of course he was going home, Mickey thought, and smiled as he glanced back at the road; if he couldn’t be with him, at least he was going somewhere safe.

“Good.”

~

Ian looked at Mickey for another second longer, watching the way the street lamps above turned his skin to a golden hue as they passed by them before he turned, glancing back at the approaching towers in the city as they got closer to home; he was being unusually quiet, he knew, but only because he was busy thinking, thoughts racing through his head as they were prone to do in the quiet; he rubbed Mickey’s knuckles, his fingers, feeling the healing scabs and the slightly raised scarring of his tattoos; the softness of his skin mingled with those wounds made Ian’s heart race, the contrasting aspects of Mickey never failing to set him on fire, and he thought maybe – now that there was no serotonin, no adrenaline or hormones coursing through him – that yes, he _was_ falling in love with Mickey Milkovich, and despite the things he had seen and been through in only two weeks, he wasn’t scared of the idea, in fact he welcomed it, letting it surround him as if it were the only solid, tangible thing in his life, because it was.

“Can I stay at your place tonight?” he asked suddenly, glancing back at Mickey, and found he was no longer nervous to broach anything anymore, not when it came to the two of them. Mickey smiled at the road, but didn’t look at him.

“Yea, man,” he said, and it was only a whisper, but he thumbed Ian’s knuckle gently in return, and Ian felt peace.

They parked the van in the exact same spot they had gotten it from, nobody the wiser, and Mickey pulled out his wallet, leaving a hundred dollar bill in the visor; Ian grinned quietly to himself at the gesture – his good-hearted criminal – before turning, following him out of the lot and back onto the street. It was going on two in the morning, and he was fucking tired, the muscles in his stomach and legs actually aching from their exertion.

“I don’t think I’ll be able to fucking walk tomorrow,” Ian put in, and rubbed absently at his hair before yawning.

“I’m surprised I didn’t tear my fucking stitches again.” Mickey smiled, and yawned in return, his apartment building coming abruptly into view. “I just have to put the keys back in the Range Rover,” he said, entering the lobby and heading towards the parking garage. “So Security doesn’t have to come up in the morning…” Ian smiled at the idea of being with Mickey in the morning – of waking up next to him –and he was going to wait for him by the stairs – too tired to even walk another twenty feet – but decided to trail after him anyways, not wanting to be away from Mickey for even a second tonight as he followed him down the stairs; and when he reached the bottom, he instantly wished he hadn’t.

Mickey was standing still in the middle of the doorway, and Ian almost ran into him before stepping aside at the last minute; he glanced up at Mickey’s face, and was about to ask him what was wrong when he saw the emptiness in his eyes, and he followed Mickey’s dead-eyed gaze across the garage. Terry Milkovich was leaning against the Audi, and his eyes widened as Ian came through the door behind his son.

Not that Ian had forgotten, but the sudden appearance of Mickey’s father brought him back to reality, and he remembered all at once what Mickey actually was – what _he_ actually was. It was easy to forget when they were alone, and Ian thought absently that it must be love, because that’s what love is, isn’t it? It’s forgetting the things you hated most about yourself, because the person you were with cared about them even less than you did.

“Pops,” Mickey said, snapping Ian from his reverie, and Ian actually heard him swallow; he thought Mickey had tried to make himself sound self-assured and distinct – as he usually was – but it came out rather weak.

“The fuck you been?” Terry asked, and his eyes never left Ian’s as he got up, strolling casually towards them. Ian stepped involuntarily behind Mickey, seeking that protective shield he knew would be there.

“Out.” Mickey sniffed loudly, rubbing at his nose, but didn’t offer anything more than that. Terry stopped in front of them, finally turning his gaze onto his son.

“With _him_?” Terry tilted his head in Ian’s direction, and Ian wasn’t sure if his blood went hot at the poison in his question, or cold at the idea of the consequences.

“He deserved a break,” Mickey said then, and straightened himself up, his arrogance suddenly returning as he pointed absently to Ian’s black eye, which was finally starting to fade. “Plus we were on business.”

“Oh is that so?” Terry took a hit of the cigarette Ian hadn’t even noticed he’d been holding before turning, crushing it out on the hood of someone’s car. “What business?”

“Club business,” Mickey replied, and pulled out his own cigarette, lighting it with steady hands. Ian wasn’t exactly sure where he was going with this, but he trusted him. “Someone stole from your safe last Friday before opening, right?” Terry’s brows came together at this, and he sniffed loudly in the silence, and Ian realized that must be a Milkovich thing.

“You weren’t at the meeting,” Terry said then, pulling an errant piece of tobacco off his tongue. “Iggy tell you?”

“I’m not as stupid as you think, Pops.” Mickey exhaled, a cloud of smoke spiraling up between himself and his father. “I watch, and I listen...” he trailed off, glancing at Ian with so much sudden indifference that Ian almost felt hurt. “Curtis knew who took it.”

“Who?” Terry spat, and shot daggers at Ian.

“It’s been taken care of,” Mickey admitted, and Ian was utterly lost. Terry glanced at Mickey, his eyes narrowing as he stared, and Ian could tell he was weighing the truth in the words of his own son against the possibility that he could actually be lying; in the end though, the loyalty of the Milkoviches seemed to win out.

“Where’s the money?”

“Upstairs.”

“Bring it tomorrow,” Terry demanded, and his tone was cold. Mickey simply nodded at this request, tossing his cigarette onto the concrete. “You better think long and hard about who you spend your time with, son.” Terry glanced between them as they stood there, quiet, and Ian noticed how Terry said _son_ as if it were a replaceable position in his life before he turned, heading for the exit without another word.

Ian didn’t know if Terry had suspected anything more than what Mickey had told him, but even if he did, it wasn’t uncommon for people in the business to sleep with the escorts, right? Maybe Terry thought that’s all this was, but then again, Ian figured that if that _were_ the case, Terry Milkovich probably would have had a lot more to say, considering he were a man and all…

Mickey stood there for a second, taking a sudden deep breath before turning and heading back up the stairs, not bothering to put the keys into the Range Rover like he had meant to. Ian followed, and once they were at his apartment door, he reached out, wanting to touch him in reassurance, but Mickey’s demeanor made him suddenly change his mind, and he tucked his hand into his pocket.

“Should I go home or…”

“No,” Mickey interrupted, not even allowing Ian to get the full question out as he unlocked the door. Ian smiled to himself – feeling not only wanted, but needed – and followed Mickey inside, both of them taking their jackets off and hanging them up on the hooks behind his door.

“What are you going to do?” Ian asked, sitting down on a stool at the island in the kitchen, watching as Mickey grabbed a beer from the fridge.

“About what?”

“Oh I don’t know, Mickey,” Ian huffed sarcastically, waving his hand errantly through the air. “About the massive lie you just told your father?” Mickey took a sip, smiling against the glass mouth of the bottle; he leaned back against the counter, reaching over to the freezer and opening it before reaching inside and pulling out an envelope, tossing it onto the counter. Ian raised his eyebrow, but grabbed it; inside there was a massive wad of cash.

“Not a lie,” Mickey admitted, shrugging as he polished off the entire bottle in a single go. Ian looked at the money, then back at Mickey.

“ _You_ stole the money?” he spat, and was almost – _almost_ – surprised.

“Needed a contingency plan.” He said it so nonchalantly, so care-free, that Ian was taken aback.

“For what?”

“For this,” he said, and motioned between the two of them. “In case someone saw us.” Ian wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, but it sure as shit wasn’t that; he knew of course that Mickey would take precautions, but not only had he done that, he had set up an entire fucking plan, consisting of actually stealing from his own father, just to protect them – to protect _him_. Ian knew Mickey was smart, cunning even, but this – this was almost diabolical.

Ian was suddenly one-hundred percent certain that if he wasn’t so fucking spent, his dick would be hard as a rock.

“Wait,” he continued, trying to wrap his brain around Mickey’s schemes. “Who are you going to blame?” Ian almost wanted to say _frame_ instead, but thought it sounded way too _The Godfather_ for his liking. Mickey tossed the empty bottle into the recycling bin before wiping absently at his mouth.

“You know Chris, that you dance with?” Ian felt a pang of recognition at the name, and remembered absently the first night he had danced at SS; Chris had been the one, he thought, that had introduced himself – had told him everyone else’s names, which Ian of course had forgotten in about five minutes.

“Yea…”

“I paid him off,” Mickey admitted, crossing his arms over his chest. “He wanted out, so I got him out.” Ian looked at him for a moment, his brows coming together as he considered this, along with the absolute lengths Mickey would go to to keep them out of the spotlight.

“You can do that?” he asked quietly, and felt a small glimmer of something in his chest. “Get people out, I mean?” Mickey glanced at him thoughtfully, understanding crossing his face as he heard Ian’s tone.

“To an extent,” he admitted. “But it’s dangerous and…” he trailed off, glancing out his wall of windows at the skyline, “and I wouldn’t risk it with you.”

Ian knew of course that Mickey meant he _couldn’t_ risk it with him – he needed him too much; and if there _was_ a possibility of Ian getting out, he somehow knew that Mickey would be right there beside him, and not paying him off in the shadows before sending him away for good.

“Come here,” Ian whispered, and stood, marching around the island and taking Mickey into his arms before pushing him back against the fridge.

“Fuck man I can’t,” Mickey chuckled, but kissed him anyways. “I have nothing left in me.” Ian breathed into his neck, feeling his breath come back into him.

“I know,” he sighed, and bit at his shoulder. “Let’s just go to bed.” 

“Shower first?”

“Yea,” Ian grinned, and yawned once more. “Shower first.”

Ian stood naked in Mickey’s bedroom, watching as Mickey dug through his drawers, pulling out a pair of pajama pants, and a pair of boxers.

“Preference?” he asked, and held them both up. Ian pointed at the pants.

“Usually those but, I have a feeling – no offence – that they’ll be a little…small.” Ian bit his lip to keep from laughing, but failed miserably when Mickey threw the pants at his face.

“Fuck off.” Ian picked the pants up off the floor in response, pulling them up over his legs just for fun; they fit, but they ended a good few inches above his ankles. Mickey laughed, looking away as he rubbed at his lips. “You’re a fuckin’ dick…”

“I know.” Ian pulled them off again, throwing them into the corner, and Mickey eyed his body with a look of hunger before tossing the boxers at him.

It was almost three by the time they crawled into bed, and despite it being the first time they had actually done anything so intimate – so personal – Ian wasn’t nervous; he felt comfortable, like he belonged there and always had. Mickey took the left side of the bed, crawling in under the duvet as Ian folded his corner back, glancing down at him in his boxers and black tank-top; he looked so normal, so comfortable, and Ian smiled at the sight, crawling in beside him as Mickey turned away, and Ian instinctively moved in behind him, cradling his arm over him and intertwining his left fingers with Mickey’s. Mickey kissed his knuckles absently, and Ian put his nose to his neck, breathing him in, that familiar smell entering into him with so much comfort that he closed his eyes at once, instantly falling into dreams of dark nights, bright lights, and carpeted floors.

~

Mickey didn’t know when he fell asleep, but it was fairly soon after Ian had rolled into him, his body and closeness filling his bed and his chest with a new comfort he wasn’t used to, but welcomed. It was almost scary, how he could go from being so independent and alone, to _this_ ; to needing someone beside him at night even though he was sure he’d never deserve it.

_No_ , he thought absently, his eyes closing. _Not just someone. Ian._

He woke sometime later – before sunrise – and was simply going to shift positions before falling back asleep when a faint glow caught his eye – a white glow illuminating the dark ceiling – and he sat up a little, glancing towards Ian, who had rolled onto his back and was breathing deeply, softly, in dreaming. Ian’s hands were crossed neatly on his stomach, his new phone resting on his chest, but the screen was still alive as it played something on YouTube, and a pair of earbuds coiled outwards into his ears. Mickey leaned over gently, not wanting to wake him, and glanced at the screen; it was a video of some girl, and she was talking into a pair of microphones, covered in some sort of…fur? Mickey squinted and read the title, making out something about ASMR; Mickey wondered absently what the fuck that even was, so he reached out quietly, and pulled a single earbud from Ian’s ear, barely moving a muscle as he slipped it into his own. The woman was whispering – rambling on about something Mickey didn’t understand – as she rubbed softly at the fuzzy microphones, and Mickey thought the whole thing was creepy as fuck, but something about it was soothing at the same time, and it almost sent tingles over his scalp before he took the earbud back out and set it on Ian’s shoulder. Mickey laughed at him there in the dark, loving just how weird and soft this South Side boy was, before he rolled back over in the twilight of dawn, falling instantly back into dreams of rainy nights, whispers in his ears, and porcelain faces.

A knocking woke him hours later, the sun beating in through the windows in what Mickey assumed was late-morning light; he glanced over at Ian – earbuds and phone now set on the side table – and watched as he rolled over at the noise, mumbling something inaudible before hugging the pillow, his mouth falling back open in sleep. Mickey noticed the soft freckles on his eyelids – eyelids so pale they were almost purple – and the way his hair had dried curly, turning into a puffy orange mess that Mickey wanted to put his face into and kiss. Instead, he threw back the duvet, stepping softly out of bed and padding across the floor as if the smallest noise might wake Ian, and he liked that that was something he now genuinely worried about.

Mickey grabbed the keys for the Range Rover off the counter, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he hobbled towards the door, fully expecting someone from Security to be one the other side. When he opened it however, he took a step back, his oldest brother Colin appearing suddenly from around the doorjamb and sauntering in.

“Where is he?” he asked, and Mickey felt his chest tighten as Colin looked quickly around the apartment before turning, striding down the hall towards the bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The philtrum is the dent in your upper lip that runs from the bottom of your nose to your Cupid's Bow! It's one of my biggest turn-ons, and writing about them makes me happy!  
> *I was listening to Uproar by Li'l Wayne while I was writing the scene with Ian drunkenly dancing in the car, and I feel like that's the perfect song for them to listen to.  
> *Mandy as a singer just makes sense to me, like she should always have been expressing herself in such soft, beautiful ways - and if you think she didn't croon out At Last while Ian and Mickey were watching, you are sadly mistaken.
> 
> My next update may not be for 1.5 - 2 weeks, as I have some paintings to finish for a client! But i will be spending all my spare time writing to get it done! I can't wait for the storm.


	6. Ink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New plans start to take shape for both Mickey and Ian, causing tensions to run high, and emotions to boil over as decisions have to be made in the coming weeks. It may also be someone's birthday, which at least gives them a respite from the chaos surrounding them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place over a couple weeks, so it's much more quipped and choppier than I'm used to! Hopefully that doesn't take away from the meatiness of what's about to unfold! Thank you again to everyone who has been reading and leaving comments, I try to read and reply to every one, but don't always have the time! If you want updates an excerpts, please feel free to follow me on Twitter @WhatsaMattavich !!!

Colin stood in the doorway of the bedroom, looking in at Ian as Mickey came up behind him; Ian was still sound asleep, rolled over on his side as he faced the empty space in the bed next to him. Mickey rubbed at his nose, the back of his neck, felt his mouth go dry.

“A fuckin red-head?” Colin spat suddenly, quietly, and laughed. “Took you for more of a blonde, twinky type guy…” Mickey shot his brother a look, the corner of his mouth pulling up the smallest bit as he heard the humour in his voice, and Mickey’s heart began to slow.

“Don’t really have a type,” Mickey confessed, but knew that wasn’t true; he _did_ have a type, and it was Ian.

“You just fucking or…?” 

“The fuck you doin’ here anyways?” Mickey asked, ignoring the question entirely, and glanced once more at Ian before reaching out for the handle and pulling the door quietly closed.

“Whatta you think?”

“Pops send you?” Mickey already knew the answer of course, and he felt the heat rise in his cheeks as he strolled back into the kitchen, desperately needing a cup of coffee. Colin sat down on a stool, taking his coat off and laying it across the island.

“Of course he fucking sent me,” he admitted, leaning back casually in the chair. “For the money, mostly.” Mickey rolled his eyes.

“I told him I’d bring it by the office today…”

“I said _mostly_ ,” Colin interrupted, raising his eyebrows. “He also wanted me to make sure there were no escorts hanging around...” Mickey snorted at this, spooning a few heaps of coffee grounds into the filter; he was sure his father _had_ simply said ‘ _escorts’_ and not ‘ _guys’_ , or ‘ _male_ escorts’, because he wouldn’t want anyone else to know that he thought Mickey maybe had a secret – not even Colin, who of course already knew, which just made the whole situation more amusing.

“It’s under control,” Mickey said simply, flicking the _on_ button before leaning against the fridge; he knew Colin wouldn’t pry too much further into it, especially if Mickey asked him not to.

“Did you take the money?” Colin asked then, bluntly, taking Mickey by surprise. Mickey glanced at him, his eyebrows pulling together slightly as he considered whether or not to divulge what he’d done.

“It’s under control,” he repeated, and Colin just nodded his head slowly in return, a smile pulling across his face.

“Smart,” he replied, and Mickey felt a bit bigger than he was.

“I’ve always been the smart one.” Mickey reached into the cupboard and pulled out a mug, raising an inquiring eyebrow at his brother, who shook his head at the offer.

“I’ve never said otherwise,” Colin confessed, and it was nice hearing his oldest brother say something reassuring, considering it wasn’t something the Milkoviches ever really did.

The pot clicked off and Mickey poured himself a cup, absently stirring in a handful of sugar and some cream as he contemplated telling Colin what had been on his mind for a few days – what had been on his mind in the night, as he dreamed, as he slept soundly beside Ian – and decided if he were going to tell anyone first, it _should_ be Colin, because despite his closeness with Mandy, Colin _was_ the eldest, and when it came to family – to business – it was his right to know.

“I think I want out,” he admitted then, straightforwardly, and found he was terrified at the admission. Colin glanced at him, leaning forward on the counter-top as his eyes narrowed the slightest bit, and he gazed long and hard at his baby brother.

“What did you say?” Mickey chewed on his lip, but didn’t look away.

“I want out.”

Colin fell back hard against the chair, his lips parting slightly as he swallowed Mickey’s words, and he looked just as shocked as Mickey felt. Colin said nothing for a long while, just stared at his brother in a way that let Mickey know the gears inside his head were turning – were working overtime – and Mickey _almost_ hoped he was trying to think of something to say to make him change his mind; but he hoped more that maybe he was trying to think of something to say to let him know he was making the right decision, because at the moment, Mickey didn’t know either way; because how could he honestly choose at the end of the day, between his family, and his own happiness?

~

Ian awoke to the muffled sounds of voices; he peeled his eyes open, hoping to see Mickey’s face in quiet dreaming there beside him in the morning light, but his heart squeezed a little when he realized the bed beside him was empty, long since cold with his absence. He sat up, rubbing his hand through his tousled hair and scratching the sleep from the corners of his eyes; despite a fairly restful sleep, he still felt tired; more than that, he felt sore, but he smiled to himself despite this as he swung his legs out of bed, knowing it was all thanks to a night of being with Mickey, in all sorts of ways.

The voices were coming from somewhere down the hall, so Ian got up, tiptoeing towards the door and leaning his ear against it in listening; he could smell fresh coffee, and hear Mickey’s voice – which he now knew by heart – deep in conversation with someone whose voice was much lower and completely unfamiliar. Ian hesitated to go out – if someone _was_ there, he figured he should probably stay put; but then again, Mickey wouldn’t let just anyone hang around the apartment when Ian was sleeping half-naked in his bed; and besides, he really had to take a piss.

_Fuck it_ , he thought, turning the handle and opening the door just the slightest bit. Mickey’s voice became suddenly clear through the crack, and Ian stood there for a second, certain he heard Mickey say, _‘I want out’_ before everything went quiet. Ian couldn’t be sure of what he was referring to – maybe he wanted out of the apartment, out of the drug or gun run – but a part of him thought that maybe he meant out of the business altogether, and the prospect filled him with a sudden longing for that exact scenario to come to pass; along with it however came a colder wave of something closer to fear, because how exactly that would work for either of them, Ian didn’t know. What he _did_ know was that if Mickey _was_ going to leave, he’d be taking Ian with him, and how they could manage to disappear – and disappear together – was for now, a question mark.

After a moment, Ian finally opened the door, striding out into the hallway as the idea of getting out with Mickey settled deep into his soul.

There was a man sitting at the island in the kitchen, and by the looks of it he was in his early thirties or so; he had black hair, massive shoulders, and even sitting down, Ian could tell he was at least the same height as him, maybe even taller. Mickey was leaning against the counter opposite, holding a cup of steaming coffee in his black tank-top and boxers, and he glanced towards him as he noticed Ian coming down the hallway; nothing in his eyes told Ian to turn back – to disappear – so he risked his appearance.

“Mick,” he said, smiling a little at Mickey’s soft face – still puffy from tiredness – before glancing at the stranger, who met his gaze with much more curiosity than Ian had thought he would.

“Mornin’,” Mickey replied, so tenderly that Ian eye’s returned to him, and the smallest smile pulled up the corners of Mickey’s lips as they looked at each other, the knowledge of their first night together being shared secretly between them as each one felt the instant comfort of the other’s presence. Mickey’s gaze suddenly drifted down to Ian’s chest, and his eyes widened slightly before he glanced quickly away, coughing into his hand as if suddenly embarrassed. Ian peered down, and saw the bruises on his chest; he probably should have been mortified at the sight – especially in front of the stranger – but he was fucking thrilled to have the echoes of Mickey’s release etched into him, if only for a while.

“Nope,” the stranger said then, glancing suddenly back and forth between them as he stood from the stool, his towering frame making Ian shift sideways a little towards the bathroom. “Definitely not just fucking!” Mickey shot him a look, his face going red as he rubbed at his eyebrow, and Ian figured this person obviously knew quite a lot.

“Colin,” Mickey declared then, holding his coffee mug out towards the new person, and Ian recognized the name instantly.

“And yes,” Colin put in, raising his eyebrows at Ian. “I am always _that_ direct.”

“That seems to be a Milkovich thing.” Ian tried to be as nonchalant as possible, considering he was obviously sleeping with Colin’s baby brother, and was standing in front of him half-fucking-naked and bruised; yet despite all this – which would usually put him on edge – Ian thought he rather liked this Milkovich brother, and he felt almost comforted as he looked at him then – _really_ looked – and found that maybe it was because he looked so much like Mickey. Ian wondered how he hadn’t noticed it at once, and he also wondered if Iggy – the blonde lurker – was adopted…

“Coffee?” Mickey asked absently, holding up the pot to Ian, who nodded.

“Thanks.” Ian pointed casually at the bathroom, feeling his face go hot. “I’m just gunna, uhh…” he trailed off, and strolled in, closing the door behind him.

~

Mickey grabbed another mug from the cupboard, pouring a cup for Ian before placing it onto the island, leaving the cream and sugar out beside it.

“He why you want out?” Colin asked suddenly, skipping the formalities as he opened the pantry, grabbing a Pop-Tart and not even bothering to put it in the toaster before digging in. Mickey didn’t really know how to answer that with complete honesty, because he wasn’t altogether sure; he just knew that the idea had always been there, but never as prevalent as it was now, which of course, _was_ because of Ian.

“I don’t think he’s the _only_ reason,” he admitted, taking a sip of his coffee. “But he’s definitely the most important one.” Mickey glanced down at his mug, not wanting to look Colin in the eye after such a cheesy admission – he didn’t want to look weak in front of him, but it _was_ the truth.

Mickey was – of course –self-aware enough to know that at the end of the day, the most important reason for getting out was actually himself – for his _own_ good, well-being, happiness, and peace of mind – but now that he had Ian, his life didn’t seem like it would be as important without him in it. So yes, Ian _was_ the most important reason he had, because without him, Mickey imagined he would probably be content to just settle into this life and survive long enough to either see himself become something he hated, or die trying. Ian was the thing that made him believe he deserved more than that.

“You love him,” Colin said then, and it was surprisingly soft, understanding, and Mickey noticed absently that it wasn’t a question. A huff of air escaped his nose in amusement as he considered this, straining his head to the right, to the left, so he could feel the relief as his bones cracked. Mickey wasn’t used to talking about these things, especially with his brothers; it wasn’t that he was ashamed of being gay – not now at least – it was just that the Milkoviches weren’t known for their sentimentality.

When he was a teenager, Mickey had been in denial for a long, long time; he would sleep with random girls – then random women – but had never actually found any satisfaction in it. Mickey had been deep inside of that denial when he finally came out to his siblings at twenty, finding a strange comfort in their acceptance of him, and that had always been enough. So besides the three of them, he had never admitted his truth to anyone; but he wasn’t afraid to be open anymore – to be accepting of himself – because the more he grew up, the more he realized that time was precious, and he was done wasting it.

“It doesn’t make any fucking sense, man,” he sighed then, taking one last sip of his coffee before setting it on the island; he leaned forward, resting his palms down on the marble as he let his head hang limp. “It’s only been the blink of a fuckin’ eye…”

“Doesn’t matter,” Colin interrupted, reaching absently into the back of his jeans, pulling out his own Glock and setting it gently on the counter. “When you know, you know.” Mickey glanced up at him, his brows furrowing together as he studied his big brother; he couldn’t be certain, but it sounded as if Colin knew the feeling, and Mickey flipped through his memories, trying to recall a specific woman in his past that he could be speaking of; when nothing came to him, his thoughts drifted errantly to the realization that Colin _had_ to be stringing him along, right? Pulling his leg? Because there was no way he was being this calm – this collected – at the prospect of Mickey disappearing for good – of leaving the family business – and with an escort no less…

“The fuck you playing at?” Mickey spat then, and crossed his arms over his chest, standing there in the light of the kitchen as the glare from the skyscrapers opposite reflected sun off the glass into rainbows around them.

“No games,” Colin admitted, and he sounded genuine. “You got fuckin’ shot, Mick.” Mickey’s brows furrowed even farther.

“And?”

“And,” Colin huffed, grabbing the Glock off the counter and turning it over in his hands. “I should have been there.” He stood up, heading to the freezer where he instinctively knew Mickey would be keeping the cash from the safe, and took it out, pocketing it.

“Why you acting like such a girl all of a sudden?” Mickey asked, unsure of where exactly these newfound feelings were coming from; the loyalty was never a question, but the _caring_ …

“Iggy and I never stood a chance, Mickey.” Colin grabbed the gun as he came back around the island, shoving it back in his belt before shrugging into his coat. “We were too old – too far gone. But you and Mandy…” he trailed off at their sister’s name, sniffing loudly as he looked up at his baby brother, the decisions in his eyes set in stone. “I’ll help you,” he finished simply, and they just looked at each other, Mickey’s chest tightening at his words. “I should have helped you a long time ago.”

“You’ll fuckin’ help me?” Mickey was hesitant, and he was sure his voice betrayed that; but he didn’t understand _why_ he was hesitant; this _was_ Colin he was speaking to – Colin, who had stabbed a guy when Mickey was eleven after he tried to touch him as he waited outside a club for their father; Colin, who punched the arresting police officer when Mickey got busted for speeding and drugs, just so he could be inside with him – and he did two years for it, despite Mickey only serving a few months; Colin, who had stood in front of him and taken almost all of Terry’s punches instead…

“I’ll help you on one condition,” Colin continued, heading towards the door before turning back, his face serious. “You have to take Mandy with you.” Mickey considered this for only a millisecond, because it wasn’t even a choice, and he didn’t understand why he had never thought about it in the first place.

“Okay,” he agreed, and Colin simply nodded, opening the front door.

“Give me a few weeks to figure something out. Until then,” Colin raised his eyebrows, tilting his head in the general direction of the bathroom. “Don’t get caught, brother.”

~

Ian was patting at is wet face with the hand towel, combing the last drops of water through his hair so it didn’t look as curly and ridiculous when he heard the front door shut suddenly, and he straightened, making his way back out into the kitchen. Mickey was leaning against the front door, chewing furiously at his bottom lip as he rubbed his K finger along his chin.

“What’s wrong?” Ian asked, but didn’t go towards him; instead, he sat on the stool that had just been Colin’s, and waited for Mickey to come to him. It took a few minutes, but finally he did.

“We’re getting out,” he admitted simply, the corner of his mouth pulling up, and Ian felt that mixed feeling of longing and fear returning at his words.

“How?”

“Colin’s gunna help,” Mickey confessed, and came up to him, placing his hand on Ian’s jaw as he sat, and Ian wrapped his arms around his waist in return, pulling him in so he could kiss him slowly, deeply, and he was glad he didn’t have to lean down to reach Mickey’s mouth. Ian tried to concentrate on the softness of his lips, the taste of coffee and sugar on his tongue, but a part of him was racing on a totally separate track, running through a thousand different scenarios, none of which making him calm.

“Can we trust him?” Ian whispered, but Mickey kept kissing him for a few seconds longer despite the question, and Ian let him. Finally, Mickey pulled away, fingering the bruises on Ian’s chest.

“I have no fucking clue man, but, I think so.”

“What about _my_ family?” Ian asked then, as it was his first – and his only – real thought. Mickey looked at him, his eyes scanning over his face, his lips, before returning their gaze.

“Nobody knows who you are, Ian,” Mickey sighed, and although it was the truth, Ian knew that in _this_ business, there were always ways of finding the truth.

“Worst case scenario?” Ian shifted forward in his seat, glancing down at Mickey’s waist as he fingered the hem of his shirt.

“What?”

“What’s the absolute worst case scenario you can think of if we were to leave?” Mickey took a step back at that, and the look in his eyes made Ian extremely uncomfortable. “And don’t lie to me,” Ian added, and he knew that if he was the one saying it, Mickey wouldn’t have a choice but to be honest.

“Someone dies,” he admitted bluntly, and the nausea that coursed suddenly through Ian at those words almost made him sick on the spot. Ian stood, pulling himself from Mickey’s grasp as he paced towards the windows, leaning his palms up against the glass as he looked out over his city. Somewhere out there, he knew, was Fiona; was Lip; was Debbie, Carl, Liam, Franny, Freddie, and fuck, even Frank; Ian had the sudden, overwhelming urge to cry at their names, mostly because he didn’t see the point in doing anything else; what choice did he have? If he left, it may be at the risk of someone he loved; if he stayed, it was only at the risk of his own life – his own future – and that was worth way less than theirs, wasn’t it?

“It’s not always safe,” Mickey whispered then, coming up beside him and looking out at the skyline. “To lean against glass, I mean.” Ian looked at him, suddenly pulling his palms from off the window, though he was sure that Mickey hadn’t meant it literally; no, what he had meant was that sometimes, something stood between you and the outside world, and although you could look beyond it – see past it – sometimes you couldn’t always get through it, and you had the choice to either stay put, forever looking out at what could have been, or lean against it – press yourself into it – hoping that when it shatters, you come out unscathed on the other side – in one piece – unlike the burden of the past you were leaving behind, left in a million scattered pieces on the floor.

“I can’t, Mickey,” Ian sighed then, and had to chew at the inside of his lip to keep from changing his mind; he couldn’t look at him anymore – couldn’t tell him the truth he felt while looking into those eyes that had consumed him entirely – so he turned away, watching a plane take off in the distance, heading somewhere Ian would never go.

Mickey didn’t move, he just stood beside him, staring unblinkingly out the window at the sky, and Ian had the sudden thought that if he left him there in that moment – if he turned for the door and never came back – Mickey would probably stay there for hours – days maybe – wondering just what it was about himself that created such chaos; but it wasn’t his fault, and Ian knew it – Mickey had never had a choice, but Ian _had_ – twice; first, when he had accepted the job from Shea Sirko, and again when he had looked at Mickey in Terry’s office, and had chosen him over freedom; but now it wasn’t his turn to make that choice, it was Mickey’s, and he knew what Mickey _should_ do – what the right choice was – so he waited; he stood, his arm so close to Mickey’s that if he shifted a hair closer, they would be touching and Mickey would at least be sure of him; but he couldn’t, because it was Mickey’s choice to make, and Mickey’s alone.

“Then we stay,” Mickey said suddenly, and Ian glanced at him, his mouth drying in an instant as his eyes threw daggers at the man he wanted to save.

“No!” Ian spat, and turned away, crossing his arms over his chest. “That’s the wrong fuckin’ choice, Mickey.” Mickey glanced up at him, the heat in his face rising as his brows pulled together.

“So, what?” he hissed, and shrugged his shoulders. “You can choose to stay for me but, I can’t make the same choice?” Ian knew what he was saying, but no, he _couldn’t_ make the same choice, not for him – Ian wouldn’t allow it.

“You have the chance to be free; to get out for good…”

“ _And_?” Mickey’s voice was getting louder, and Ian thought he was about to see what it was like when Mickey was mad at him, and although the thought of never being able to find pleasure in it beyond this day if he _did_ leave almost broke his heart, for now, he was going to revel in every emotion Mickey shot his way.

“ _And_ ,” Ian yelled, marching into the kitchen to take a sip from the coffee that was now cold. “I won’t have that on my conscience.”

“ _You’re_ conscience!?’

“Yea, Mickey, mine! If you give up your future for me, what am I supposed to do? Fucking rejoice in it?” Ian set the mug down so harshly that a chip broke off the bottom. “I’ll fucking hate it,” he continued. “I’ll hate myself every day knowing that you could be out there having the life you wanted, but instead, you chose to stay, and for what? For _me_? For _this_?” Ian motioned to himself, his hands waving errantly to encompass his whole body, his whole _condition_ ; his breath was coming faster now, his cheeks going hot as the anger rose into them, and he looked at Mickey, who stared back at him for only a second before stepping away from the windows, arms still crossed over his chest as he strolled towards him, a look of calm on his face that made Ian stand up straighter, bracing himself.

“So that’s what this is about?” Mickey almost laughed, a small smile pulling up the corner of his mouth, but his tone was poisonous. “You don’t think you’re worth it.” Ian scoffed at this, turning his head away and shaking it as if the accusation was ridiculous.

“No, Mickey, that’s _not_ what I’m say…”

“But it is, though,” Mickey interrupted, coming around the island so that he was standing directly in front of Ian; and although he was shorter, and Ian had to glance down into his eyes, Ian felt suddenly as if he were the much smaller person – a child about to be put in his place.

“It’s my _family_!” Ian spat, annoyed, but he knew he was only annoyed because Mickey _was_ partly right – but only partly.

“What if I could protect them?” Mickey asked then, stepping back, hands suddenly on his hips, and Ian noticed how his eyes blazed like fire.

“You can’t guarantee shit, Mick.”

“Okay,” he hissed, “hypothetically speaking then, _Ian_.” He said his name with a hint of sarcasm and sat down onto one of the stools. “If I could absolutely guarantee their safety, would you leave with me?” Ian stopped at this, considering, and sniffed loudly as Mickey was prone to do, glancing around the room as he thought, trying to calm his breathing; he already knew the answer, but he didn’t want to give Mickey the satisfaction; so he waited for a moment, just to be an ass.

“Yes,” he said finally, “but…”

“But,” Mickey interrupted, and his voice was much quieter. “You’re afraid you’re not good enough...” Ian met his gaze then, and Mickey’s eyes were full of questioning, with no hint of malice behind them. Ian nodded, biting at his lip to keep the emotion from welling up in his eyes as he looked down at his feet, crossing his arms over his chest in defeat as he leaned back against the counter.

“How could you possibly know?” he asked then, and his voice trembled the smallest bit. “How could you know that me – all the versions I can be – is what you’d want to be with…”

“Stop,” Mickey whispered, and stood, coming forward and pulling Ian’s arms away from his chest, wrapping them around his waist so that they stood there together, wrapped in sunlight, the smell of coffee, and each other. Mickey reached up, placing a hand on Ian’s face, and Ian let him, closing his eyes as he braced for Mickey’s lips, which came open and willing to his. Ian felt calm settle once more in his chest then, and it was Mickey who did that, and nobody else.

“So we’ll stay?” Ian inquired then, placing his hand over Mickey’s on his face, resting his head against it so that Mickey could hold him up, as he’d been doing from the beginning.

“No.” Mickey thumbed absently under Ian’s eye, as if rubbing away the tears that hadn’t actually fallen. “We go.” Ian inhaled a tired breath at that, and pulled back, huffing through his nose in annoyance; why could Mickey not just see where he was coming from…

“Mickey, I fucking can’t…” 

“I think I love you,” Mickey said suddenly, and Ian turned towards him at the words, his mouth falling open the littlest bit as he heard them, took them in, drank them into his being, and felt the blood rush into his ears, throughout his chest, and he was sure that for just a single second, the world stopped turning.

~

Mickey couldn’t believe he’d actually fucking said it, or said something _like_ it, at least; it was childish maybe, he thought, but not because it was said in ignorance or a lack of understanding of what love actually was, even though he’d never actually had it; but because it was said with such pure meaning. Mickey had always thought about how once you grow up, it’s like you’re no longer allowed to love things as much or as quickly as you did when you were little, like you’re supposed to take your time as an adult – to figure love out, to see if it makes sense for you or if it will even work; but this love he felt inside of him _was_ a child-like love, born out of unadulterated feeling and _not_ logic, and at the end of the day, wasn’t that the best kind of love?

Yes, Mickey had said it for the first time in his life and actually meant it, and although it wasn’t under the circumstances he had ever imagined, it happened, because he needed to bring Ian back to him – back down to earth where they were equal, and had a chance at the same future of being free together that they never would have had if they were apart, or had never met in the first place.

“I think I love you, too,” Ian said suddenly then in reply, and for just a single second, Mickey was sure his heart stopped beating. It came out of Ian’s mouth as a breath – a breath Mickey knew was born out of not just love, but fear for the future, uncertainty, and all the things Ian had yet to discover about him – that they had yet to discover about each other – but that would come with time, Mickey was sure. He smiled then – a soft smile that was barely there – as blood rushed through all parts of him, and that hardened ribcage within his chest shattered like glass at the words, a million pieces falling into the hollows of his stomach as Ian broke apart that one piece of him that he thought would forever be immovable.

“Then I promise you,” Mickey continued, and pushed himself up, kissing Ian’s chin, beside his mouth, the tip of his nose. “That nothing will happen to your family; but Ian, we _need_ to get out.”

~

Ian tilted his head so his mouth caught Mickey’s, and he just wanted to touch him while he still could, because as of now, his mind wasn’t made up – he had no idea what he was supposed to do; so instead, he stood, grabbing Mickey’s hand and pulling him back towards the bedroom, needing the one thing he knew took no thought or consideration. Mickey didn’t resist, he just followed behind, hand intertwined tighter than normal. If Ian _did_ choose to stay, and somehow convince Mickey to go, he was going to keep the promise he made to himself: to at least have Mickey in all the ways he could, while he still had the chance. The night before, he had had him drunk and in love, and had felt the complete liberation that could bring him; but now, now he wanted him in the morning – in forgiveness – when his skin was soft, but there was stubble on his jaw and sleep in his eyes; when there was coffee on his tongue, and sunlight on his face…

Mickey took his tank-top off in silence, staring at Ian as if trying to read what was on his mind – but maybe that was something he hadn’t learned to do yet, because they hadn’t had enough time. Ian watched him until he was naked, then hooked his thumbs in his own boxers – boxers that actually belonged to Mickey, just like _he_ did in the moment – and pushed them off, letting them fall to the floor as he stared back at the man who had _almost_ saved him, his skin so pale and flawless it made Ian ache. Ian didn’t say anything either, just tilted his head towards the bed, and Mickey understood; he turned, and sat on the edge, suddenly grabbing a hold of himself and pulling gently, slowly, as he eyed Ian, and Ian gave him the same pleasure in return, reaching down and feeling himself harden in his hand at the soft sight of Mickey.

It was slow, and silent; they didn’t need to say anything, not right now. Ian simply wrapped his arm under Mickey’s waist, lifting him back onto the pillows, everything so comfortable and warm in the daylight. Mickey looked up at him, hand stroking his cock as Ian made himself wet again, made Mickey’s opening wet again, and pushed in gently, softly, closing his eyes so he could focus on nothing beyond the all-consuming grip of Mickey enshrouding him. They were rocking together then, the bed barely moving as the white duvet puffed out around them, and Ian had the sudden notion of fucking Mickey on a cloud, which is what it felt like – like they were up above the world, just the two of them, trying to get by together and not be separated by the changing winds.

“Ian,” Mickey whispered suddenly, and Ian’s eyes fluttered open at the sound; he looked down at him – searching that beautiful face – tears almost filling his own eyes as he heard the desperation in Mickey’s voice that Ian knew was trying to bring him back. Hearing it made Ian’s heart almost shatter, so he moved faster out of instinct, trying to fill himself with that sensation of release instead of heartbreak. Mickey’s head fell back at the pressure and his eyes drifted closed, and Ian was glad he wasn’t looking at him, because he _did_ cry then – only a single tear falling as he made love to Mickey, wondering how it had all gone so wrong in his life, yet, all gone so right… 

“Mickey,” Ian whimpered suddenly in answering, and he didn’t have a choice in it; his subconscious needed to be sure of him – to call out for him – as that feeling of orgasm built abruptly in his stomach. Mickey glanced upwards, their eyes meeting there in the sun, and Ian knew Mickey could probably see the trail of wetness down his cheek, but he didn’t care – he needed Mickey to see all of him. Suddenly his muscles contracted at the thought, and he pushed his chin into his chest, thrust himself deeper into Mickey, his eyes squeezing shut as that firework of warmth burst inside of him, and he moaned “ _Okay_ ” as he came – hard – and he knew that his heart had again made his decision for him, and that that’s what he had actually been hoping for all along; because Mickey _was_ bad – in every sense of the word – but Ian loved that with him, he _wasn’t_ bad – he was good; he was soft, and he was kind – as much as Mickey could be any of those things – and Ian saw within him someone who could thrive in the outside world if given the chance, and he wanted him to – he wanted the both of them to try, together, which is why he knew he had made up his mind in the moment. If anyone could make it, he thought absently, it would be them, because so far – through everything – they’d survived.

No, Ian wouldn’t let Mickey be the man who _almost_ saved him; he wanted him to be the man who did.

Looking back, Ian wasn’t really sure when it happened, it just…did. There had been no words; no conversations. It was simply: one day Mickey wasn’t there, and then he was; and then somehow, he became his, and he loved him completely. It was as simple as that. Nothing more. Nothing less.

~

Mickey watched Ian’s face tighten – his eyes close – as he came inside of him, and felt his own release only a second later, his eyes never leaving Ian’s face as long, opulent ropes of his own cum shot up his stomach, and Ian said “ _Okay_ ” suddenly – in the middle of his release – and Mickey knew he had made his decision, which made his own orgasm that much more complete.

“You’ll leave with me?” Mickey panted after a minute, all of Ian’s weight resting against his chest as the sunlight set his hair on fire, and it tickled at Mickey’s neck, his cheeks. Ian pushed himself up, pulled himself out, and rolled over to the side, letting his hand rest on his chest.

“Yes,” he answered simply, and Mickey turned his head to look at him, as Ian did the same. Mickey didn’t know what had made Ian change his mind in the moment, but he didn’t fucking care; he was just grateful.

They lay there on their backs like that for a while – simply looking at each other, neither saying a word; Mickey knew it was because they were each going through the possibilities of the future in their own heads, hoping for a good outcome, and fearing one that wasn’t.

“Can I ask you something?” Ian asked suddenly, and Mickey chewed at his lip, nodding. “Have you ever….” he trailed off, glancing up at the ceiling, and Mickey worried at the way Ian looked away from him.

“Have I ever what?” Ian was quiet for a moment, and he fingered his lips, clearly tossing the question around in his head.

“Killed someone?” he asked finally, and the bluntness of the question threw Mickey entirely; he rubbed absently at his eyebrow, following Ian’s gaze to the ceiling.

“No,” he admitted, and Ian breathed an audible sigh of relief. Although it was the truth, Mickey still wondered what Ian would have done if the answer had been different.

“Has Colin?” Mickey chewed harder on his lip, and considered lying; but if they were going to do this – and do this together – he couldn’t lie; not to Ian.

“Yes,” Mickey admitted, and Ian didn’t say anything, just nodded absently, his fingers drumming softly against his chest.

“But you trust him?” Ian turned his head back, and his fingers stopped their drumming as his hand reached down and intertwined with Mickey’s.

“Yes,” Mickey confessed, and Ian breathed, his face settling in his decision.

“Okay.” The corner of Ian’s mouth pulled up the smallest bit, and Mickey thought that maybe, they had a chance.

“Can I ask _you_ something?” Mickey put in then, his lips pressing together at the memory and he tried his best to keep from laughing.

“What?”

“What the fuck is ASMR?” Ian’s head lifted then, and his face flushed as he fumbled around for words, which made Mickey laugh.

“Shut up,” Ian spat, and slapped at his hand. “It helps me fall asleep sometimes.”

“You’re so sensitive...”

“It reminds me of…” Ian trailed off again, his free hand coming up to scratch at his chest hair.

“Of what?”

“Of listening to my brothers at night,” Ian confessed, and a soft look of happiness crossed his face. “Talking with them about stupid things, all three of us crammed into one room…” Mickey squeezed his hand then, his soft porcelain boy who loved his family.

“Two more weeks, man, and you can see ‘em.”

~

Ian’s work phone went off a minute later, and that small feeling of excitement beat within his chest at the sound of it, until he realized it couldn’t possibly be Mickey, as Mickey was right beside him, breath slowing.

“I have a date,” he declared absently, and rolled over, grabbing the matte black phone from off the table.

“When?”

“Monday.” Ian glanced through the text. “Casual wear. Six pm.”

“ _Monday_!?” Mickey scoffed, rubbing at his temple, which made Ian grin. “Mr. Fucking Popular…” Ian clicked off the screen and rolled over, letting his arm drape over Mickey’s stomach as he breathed him in, the smell of sweat filling him as he rested his lips on Mickey’s shoulder.

“My boyfriend thinks so,” Ian sighed then, closing his eyes as tiredness overtook him; it felt like the right thing to say in the moment, and he felt rather than saw Mickey’s head turn to look at him, and he grinned against his skin.

“ _Boyfriend_!?”

“Deal with it, Milkovich,” Ian mumbled, and let sleep fall over him.

~

Mickey watched Ian’s chest slow – listened as his mouth made the smallest wet sound as his lips parted in sleep – and considered that word in his head; he had never had a boyfriend - had never _been_ anyone’s boyfriend – but of course, he accepted the role at once, never having any doubt. All of a sudden, past the comfort in his body, beyond the _like_ and maybe the _love_ he felt within him, came a more pressing, urgent feeling he knew, and knew well – it was protectiveness, and he wrapped his arm tighter around Ian in response, staring up at the ceiling as all hints of exhaustion faded away, and he did what he was good at there in the silence – he started making plans… 

The next night, Mickey grabbed a suit from his closet – as was his regular routine before a Friday night meeting at the club – and slipped it on before snagging his and Ian’s Tom Ford’s up from off the floor – where they had sat since Wednesday – and throwing them into a dry-cleaning bag. Luckily Mickey had had a pair of track pants and a t-shirt that _did_ fit Ian, and when he had dropped him off at his place the day before, he had thought he looked rather sexy, so casual in his clothes in the front seat of his Audi.

As if on cue, his Ian phone vibrated then, and he glanced at it.

**Ian: I’ll see you tonight?** Mickey smiled, and liked that his boyfriend asked stupid questions he already knew the answers to.

**Obviously.** Mickey wasn’t picking him up however, nor was he dropping him off; they had discussed it over the past twenty-four hours, coming to the conclusion that with the current climate surrounding Terry Milkovich, it was best if they kept their distance as much as possible, including leaving their phones for each other at home, just in case someone got fucking nosey.

Mickey called Mandy on his way to the club, the sudden, soft cadence of her voice as it reverberated throughout the car making him smile as he pulled up to a red light.

“So?” she asked, and Mickey loved that Milkoviches never bothered with formalities; he knew she was inquiring about the date with Ian, but he feigned ignorance just to annoy her.

“So, what?”

“Fuck off, Mickey.” He laughed at that.

“He called me his boyfriend…” Mickey admitted shyly, and although nobody was around, he rubbed at his eyebrow, his temple.

“Well aren’t you two just the cutest.” She said this with a childish voice – high-pitched and annoying – and Mickey flipped the dash-screen the bird.

“Did Colin talk to you?” Mickey asked, changing the subject as he pulled out a cigarette and lit it. Mandy was quiet for a moment, and Mickey listened to her breathing.

“Yea,” she admitted finally.

“And?”

“And,” she sighed, sniffing loudly in the silence, “I’m scared, Mick.” Mickey bit his lip at this, the way her voice went quieter making him recall certain times when they were little, and she had been afraid of Terry’s consequences; but Mandy didn’t get afraid much anymore, so Mickey knew this was serious.

“We can do it, Mandy,” he admitted, and he knew it was the truth. “I’m working on a plan and,” he stopped for a moment, gassing it as the light turned green, “and so is Colin. Together we can figure it out.”

“I trust you,” she said then, and it was solid, sure; Mickey realized all at once that it wasn’t just Ian who was counting on him.

“I have to go.” Mickey pulled into the back lot behind SS, parking in his regular spot. “But when I know more, I’ll call you.”

“Love you, Mick.”

“I know.”

Mickey didn’t bother tossing his cigarette before heading straight for the office, smoke escaping from between his lips as he strolled down the catwalks and up the stairs.

Colin was back at his usual place beside their father, so Mickey pulled out the chair to his right, trying not to look at him too knowingly in front of Terry. Terry glanced at him, as if sensing this, but there was nothing suspicious in his eyes, and Mickey knew Colin had kept both his word and his mouth shut, as he knew he would.

“Can you make another run to Boy’s Town tonight?” Colin asked him suddenly, and Mickey shot him a look.

“What for?”

“New escort,” their father put in, tonguing the end of his cigar before lighting it. “Courtesy of Shea Sirko, since I hear you took care of the other one...” Mickey’s heart squeezed at this, and his thoughts went momentarily to Ian before he realized they were probably referring to Chris.

“Yea,” Mickey agreed then, squishing his cigarette into the ashtray. “I can make a run down.” Terry nodded at this, approving, and Mickey suddenly found himself once again in the warmth of their father’s good graces.

“Now,” Terry continued, his voice louder, and everyone at the table shut up immediately. “Got a grass run tonight, gun run in two weeks…”

“I’ll do the run tonight,” Iggy offered, rubbing absently at his peach fuzz, and Mickey was glad it wasn’t him, though he wasn’t really looking forward to another run to the Fairy Tale, either…

“I’ll go with him,” Colin put in, leaning back in his chair. “They’re not going alone anymore, Pops.” At this comment, Mickey and Iggy glanced at each other; the sudden authority in Colin’s voice managed to make it seem like he was overriding Terry’s own decisions right there in front of everyone, and you _never_ told Terry Milkovich his business, even if you were family. To Mickey’s surprise however, Terry simply agreed, his lips pressing together as if he knew that one day soon, this would all be Colin’s anyways, and he expected him to step the fuck up; that was acceptable coming from Colin, but still only to a degree, Mickey knew.

“I’ll meet you at the drop-off later,” Mickey put in, trying to break the tension and knowing that by the time he had dropped off his own pick-up, Iggy and Colin would be meeting with the dealers, and after the incident at the yacht, he wanted to be there.

“We’ll meet next Sunday to go over New York,” Terry added then, and got up from the table; they all simply nodded, and followed, going about their business.

~

Ian stepped down off the platform, following Sergei into the change room towards the stairs and his waiting client; he was about to head up when Mickey came suddenly through the back door, grabbing his arm in passing.

“I have to go to the Fairy Tale,” he said simply, rubbing at his eyebrow. Ian felt his stomach tighten a bit at this, and was surprised at the jealousy that ripped through him.

“Oh?” He chewed on the corner of his lip, and Mickey’s mouth pulled up in a smile.

“New dancer,” he admitted, and tilted his head towards Chris’s old space. “Since the last one disappeared.” Ian glanced at the open, empty locker, and felt another pang of jealousy, but this one was for the man who had gotten out, and not the man who was about to spend a whole evening in Mickey’s car.

“Yea well,” Ian spat, and glanced around quickly before pushing Mickey up against the wall. “Just make sure this pick-up doesn’t turn out like the last one, okay?” Mickey laughed a little then as Ian’s mouth came down onto his quickly, and Ian gave him a kiss that screamed _you’re mine, Milkovich_ before pulling back, and heading up the stairs, chest already heaving.

Ian was home by 2:30am, the El getting him there in half the time it had taken him to walk. He sauntered into his room, slipping out of his clothes and into his pajama pants before grabbing his Mickey phone from the drawer in his bed-side table; he _was_ going to text him, but suddenly thought better of it; Mickey had a pick-up tonight, and had also mentioned a drug run, which Ian was sure Mickey would want to be a part of if his brothers were going to be there, especially after the incident on the boat; so Ian put the phone back on the table, padding out into the kitchen to grab a late-night snack before bed.

Opening the fridge, he pulled out the milk, and was about to grab a box of cereal when there was a knock at the door. Ian let the fridge close quietly, his brows pulling together; he wasn’t going to answer it – considering the time of night and that nobody had actually buzzed the front entrance – so Ian leaned around the island instead, looking curiously at the front door when a second knock came, louder, and a piece of paper slid under the door. Ian hesitated a moment, wondering what the fuck that was about, but eventually went towards it, tiptoeing across the marble as he reached down, and unfolded the piece of paper:

_Open the fuck up, Gallagher._

_M_

Ian smiled, unbolting the door and opening it. Mickey was leaning on the other side, a wide grin across his face, his black suit fitting snuggly against him in all the ways Ian loved.

“I only have like ten minutes before I have to meet my brothers…”

“Come here,” Ian cut in, pulling Mickey in by the collar as he crumpled the note and tossed it onto the floor; he eyed absently the hole in the drywall where his fist had gone through it, and made a mental note to fucking fix it before dragging Mickey into his bedroom, where ten minutes was more than enough time.

“How’s the new guy?” Ian asked later, watching Mickey as he hastily pulled his clothes back on.

“A bit of a twink,” he admitted, and smiled. “He’s down on the fourth floor.” This made sense, Ian thought, that’s how Mickey had gotten in the building…

“Should I be worried?” Ian jested, and Mickey snorted.

“Fuck no.”

“Good.” Ian stood from the bed, reaching out and doing up the buttons of Mickey’s shirt for him as Mickey eyed him, and Ian felt suddenly – stupidly – like he had to be the most powerful man in the world, mostly because he could control – _and_ possess – the most powerful, in-control man he had ever met, and that was saying something. “Hey, it’s my birthday next Saturday,” he admitted then, finally telling Mickey what he had been wanting to for a few days now.

“It is?” Mickey’s eyebrows shot up, and Ian grinned, loving the fact that they didn’t even know yet when each other’s birthdays were; but it seemed so trivial, considering.

“Yea.” Ian smoothed out the wrinkles of his shirt before Mickey slid his jacket back on. “Think we could do something?” Ian didn’t mean anything fancy of course, he just meant he wanted to spend time with Mickey; since he couldn’t be home, he wanted to be with the next closest thing.

“I’ll get you the night off,” Mickey said then, slipping on his shoes before heading for the door. “And yea, we’ll do something.” With that, he pushed himself up, kissing Ian gently, and Ian slapped absently at his ass, making him laugh against his lips before he turned, heading back out into the night.

Mickey came by the next night before work, informing Ian he had gotten him his birthday off work and had planned something at his place, but not to expect anything fancy, which Ian was thankful for; he had never been a fancy person, and felt most comfortable when he could genuinely be who he was – South Side trash.

On Monday, Ian had his date, which turned out to be exactly that – a date with a client; they went out to eat, and there was no fancy function, just someone who wanted company – with no sexual intent – and Ian could appreciate that.

Mickey came by almost every evening, even after Ian had returned from a second date on Wednesday, and another on Thursday. He was becoming more of a commodity at the club, he realized; his reputation growing by simply dancing like he was good at – by providing comfort and company like he was good at. Ian wondered absently – as they laid together in bed on Thursday night – if it bothered Mickey that he went out with other men – that sometimes things turned sexual with other men – and despite wanting to, he never actually broached the subject, because Mickey didn’t seem all that put out by it, and he knew that if he _was_ , Mickey – of all people – would say something about it. Ian thought that maybe it didn’t bother him because Mickey knew this was simply business; or maybe it was because Mickey knew that actual sex was reserved for him and him alone; or maybe it was a combination of both…

Some nights he and Mickey fucked, each of them cumming within minutes, the need and the want too intense after only a day or two of absence from each other. Sometimes they made love, with Ian over top of him, feeling his way inside slowly in the dark, or slowly in the light, moving with Mickey as if they were anchoring each other to the face of the earth, minutes and minutes and minutes passing them by as they felt each other, tasted each other, and started to learn all the things that took patience and time.

When they weren’t together, they texted, sending each other pictures in the quiet of their bedrooms, typing out dirty things that made Ian’s stomach tighten and his face flush, and he never remembered jacking off being so fantastic – so pleasurable – in all his life.

On Friday, Ian danced, catching Mickey watching from up in the balcony more than once, and each time he turned his body towards him like he was prone to do, giving his boyfriend a show. At first the act had simply been about calling Mickey to him – to call him _into_ him – so they could join together out of passion and heat, and give each other something they both clearly needed. Now, Ian danced for him because he wanted to – he wanted to let Mickey know that all of this belonged to him, and that Ian had never had a choice about it.

~

Mickey set a couple plates out on the island, shoved a case of beer into the fridge, and laid out four pre-rolled joints; it wasn’t going to be a grand affair, but it was going to be the two of them, and it was at least going to be fucking fun. Mickey had considered taking him out again, but they were still under lockdown, wanting to be as inconspicuous as possible until plans were finally in place, so this was as good as it was going to get, for now.

Ian rang the main entrance at 6pm exactly, and Mickey buzzed him in, waiting by his front door with both hands behind his back.

“If there’s another fucking phone behind your back,” Ian spat, closing the door behind him as he entered, and looking curiously at Mickey. “I swear to God I will fucking leave you.” Mickey rolled his eyes at that, pulling one hand out and rubbing absently at his eyebrow; he felt a bit stupid, a bit corny.

“It’s not a fuckin’ phone, calm down.” Mickey strolled forward, hands firmly in place behind him as Ian met him halfway. “Happy birthday,” Mickey sighed, and reached up, kissing him once, twice, Ian wrapping his hands around his waist and teasingly trying to pry the box from his hands.

“I hope it’s lube,” Ian joked, and they laughed into each other’s mouths for a moment; Mickey _had_ bought lube, actually, earlier in the week – but Ian had text him on the way over, saying he had forgotten it.

_We’ll survive_ , Mickey thought absently, handing the small box to Ian before stepping away, his face flushing as he turned, grabbing a beer from the fridge. The gift wasn’t anything overly extravagant or fancy, which Mickey somehow felt would mean more; at least, he hoped it would.

~

Ian glanced at Mickey as he puttered around the kitchen, and his lips pressed together in amusement at just how shy he could be – how embarrassed at such little gestures. The box in his hands was small, brown, and didn’t look overly expensive, which Ian was thankful for; he felt like they were getting to the point now where Mickey knew he didn’t have to buy his affection or try to impress him, and Ian thought he loved him just a little bit more because of it.

He pulled off the lid of the box, and inside was a bracelet; it wasn’t what he had been expecting – not that he knew what he _had_ been expecting – but he reached in, and gently pulled it out. It _wasn’t_ fancy; it was black leather, intertwined into a braid with a silver clasp. It was simple, small, and Ian smiled to himself, loving that this was actually something that suited the person he was.

“Hey you,” Ian said, quietly, and Mickey’s eyes met his. “Come here.” Mickey thumbed his temple, not really looking at him as he came around the island. “Thank you.” Ian reached out then, placing his hand onto the side of Mickey’s head as he gazed at him – stared into those eyes that confused him so much with their ability to go from one polar extreme to the other – and Ian rejoiced in the fact that he was in possession of the greatest parts of him.

“I had the little inscription put on,” Mickey said absently, glancing away again, and Ian furrowed his brows, looking down at the bracelet. He turned the clasp over gently, and saw on the other side there were two small letters inscribed: _SW_

“South Wallace,” Mickey admitted, and cleared his throat, scratching the back of his head. Ian glanced up at him, and felt a tug at his heart at the thought of home, and how Mickey would know that today of all days, it was the one thing he’d be missing most. Ian slid his hand around to the back of Mickey’s head, pulling him up to him so he could thank him in a way that didn’t need words, and Mickey gave in to him, letting his mouth open as Ian showered him with praises.

Mickey had ordered pizza for dinner, and the sight of it as he pulled the box from the oven made Ian unbelievably happy; he had been right, of course – Mickey had planned something simple, something unbelievably South Side, and the comfort he needed from family and the idea of home filled him just enough to keep him from thinking about his siblings and just what kind of party they’d be having tonight if he had been there. They had all called him of course, earlier in the day, and were planning a belated party for the following weekend when he would finally be back, and Ian was excited at the prospect; but he was also excited to spend _this_ night with Mickey, so he focused on him entirely, laughing genuinely at his sarcastic comments, at his ridiculous stories, at the beers he drank, the Scotch he sipped; and what the fuck, he even cracked a beer for himself, and knew he wouldn’t regret it.

~

Ian was fairly drunk, so Mickey slid open the massive balcony door, letting in the cool night air as he lit the first joint, and the smoke filled his lungs at once. Ian sauntered over, pulling it from Mickey’s fingers before taking a long drag, then another, and Mickey smiled to himself, watching the bracelet dangle from his freckled wrist as if it had always been there.

“Take it easy, Gallagher,” he sighed, and stole the joint back from him. “You’re already fuckin’ trashed.”

“You never call me Fire-crotch anymore,” Ian mumbled then, and leaned haphazardly against the railing, glancing out at the skyline. “I fucking hated that name.” Mickey smiled, the joint dangling from between his teeth as he took one more hit before squishing the end out.

“Point taken, Ian.” Mickey came up beside him then; it was getting warmer out, and now that they were heading further into May, Mickey looked forward to the longer days – longer days when the sun would hang around just a little later, and he wouldn’t always feel like he and Ian were slinking around in the shadows, like fucking vampires; he smiled to himself at the thought – at Ian’s pale skin – and bit his tongue to keep from making a joke about sleeping in coffins.

“We need music,” Ian declared suddenly, turning and heading back inside; he went straight to the Bluetooth speaker in Mickey’s kitchen, and Mickey watched him, chewing his lip as Ian pulled off his green flannel, leaving him in his white tank-top and jeans. “How the fuck do you work this thing!?” Ian yelled, and Mickey set the remainder of the joint on the glass table of the balcony, sauntering back in to his intoxicated boyfriend.

“You just turn it on for fuck’s sake,” Mickey hissed, though he wasn’t actually annoyed. Ian smiled at him through those squinty eyes before pulling out his phone, and putting on some loud playlist of upbeat music.

“Wanna dance?” he asked, and didn’t even wait for a reply before he started bopping along to the beat, that porcelain body Mickey loved moving in that way it did when he was suddenly gone to another place – some place he found inside the music that Mickey would never really know.

“Fuck no.” Mickey could feel the weed kicking in along with the alcohol, and even though he felt any anxieties he may have drifting away, he still had enough of his faculties to not embarrass himself. Mickey strolled into the living room instead, sinking down into the couch as his body started to float, to tingle, and he smiled absently as he watched Ian, who caught his eye then, and moved towards him, his face becoming as serious as it possibly could in such a state before he came down and straddled him. He rubbed his pelvis gently up and down along Mickey’s healing thigh, his head tilting down to Mickey’s ear as he danced for him – danced _on_ him – and Mickey felt suddenly like he was one of Ian’s clients, up in the private room with him on a Saturday; but Mickey didn’t need to pay for this, to tip him for this – this was where Ian wanted to be, what Ian wanted to do of his own free will because he loved him, and luckily Mickey was far enough gone that he didn’t have to worry about an erection at the thought; he just enjoyed the sound of the music, the smell and feel of Ian against him, and let his own love consume him as he drifted away into oblivion.

“Your tattoos are hot,” Ian whispered sometime later, and Mickey brought his head up – which felt like it weighed a thousand pounds – and wasn’t actually sure all that much time had passed; Ian was still straddling him, but he was no longer dancing; he was simply holding Mickey’s hands in his own, flipping them over as he looked at the tattoos on his knuckles. “You need more.”

“Oh like a big pair of tits?” Mickey joked, and began to laugh hysterically despite it not even being that funny. Ian fell backwards off of him onto the floor, falling to pieces along with him.

“No like something new!” Ian spat, rolling up off the floor and sitting cross-legged; there were tears in his eyes from laughing, and Mickey made a mental note that _this_ Ian might just be his favourite version. “Come on,” Ian hissed then, standing up and nearly falling over twice before shrugging back into his flannel and slipping into his high-tops. Mickey watched as he grabbed another joint off the counter and headed out the front door, and Mickey tried his best to instantly sober up as he grabbed his apartment keys quickly off the counter and followed.

Mickey awoke to his alarm the following morning, the sound ringing so loudly in his ears that he actually grabbed the clock from off the table and ripped it from the wall before throwing it onto the floor, where it promptly smashed the fuck to bits. He glanced over, glad to see Ian was still sound asleep beside him; he was fully clothed, laying spread eagle on his stomach on top of the duvet; one sock was completely missing, and his hair had gone curly and puffy from a restless night’s sleep. Mickey smiled at the sight, a comfort radiating throughout his chest as he threw the duvet back, slowly rising so as not to wake him. He wobbled a little as the fuzziness rushed into his head, but within a moment, it was gone, and he was happy to find he remembered most of the night before as he hobbled out into the hallway and into the bathroom. The meeting about New York was in a few hours, so Mickey started the shower, stepping out of his boxers as he glanced at himself in the mirror; at first he thought there was something on the glass, until the memory came rushing back to him.

“Oh fuck,” he sighed, and almost laughed as he brought his hand up, gently fingering the _IG_ tattooed onto his chest. It wasn’t big, maybe the size of a beer bottle cap, but it stood out against his pale skin. Ian appeared in the doorway suddenly – as if on purpose – his eyes pressed tightly shut as he squeezed at the bridge of his nose, clearly in a bit of pain.

“What’s that?” he asked, and came closer, eyeing the letters inked into Mickey’s skin; his eyebrows shot up then, and he pressed his lips together, and Mickey thought he was trying his best to keep from fucking bursting.

“You’re a fuckin’ asshole,” Mickey huffed, flipping Ian the bird; but he didn’t actually mean it, and he _did_ actually laugh then, letting his hand drop as he turned, pushing Ian back into the cascading water of the shower, fully clothed, and needed at once to do all the things with him he had wanted to do the night before.

“At least you didn’t get my whole name,” Ian snorted, peeling his soaking shirt off and tossing it to the floor, and Mickey thought somewhere in the back of his mind that if it hadn’t been such a risk to do it, he might have.

Mickey took his place once more at the table, and he absently kept pulling his sweater away from his chest, trying to keep it from chafing against the bandage he had put over his tattoo.

_Jesus Christ_ , he thought again, and smiled to himself, making a mental note to never let Ian fucking Gallagher drink – or at least to never be drunk _with_ him – ever again. Someone needed to make good decisions…

“What the fuck you smiling at?” Colin asked, taking his place beside him.

“Nothin’…”

“Mhmm…”

Terry entered the room then, more men following in behind him than usual; but that was normal for a gun run – they were higher risk due to the distance involved, the sheer amount of money, and of course the massive cache of illegal weapons themselves. There were maybe twenty of them in the room by the time the door shut, and Mickey sat up straighter, actually a little relieved to be back focusing on business, which he was good at.

“Colin and Mick will fly out Friday evening,” Terry put in then, leaning back in his chair at the head of the table as his fingers drummed absently on the mahogany. “Iggy’s leaving Thursday morning with the truck and the cargo.” This too, was standard – one of them always traveled with the gear, along with a couple heavyweights and a handful of grunts.

“What we movin’?” Mickey inquired, lipping a cigarette; he always liked to have an idea of what the fallout would be, in case things got fucked.

“Twenty AK’s,” Colin started, glancing around the table – he was clearly taking lead, and Mickey was happy he was back. “Twenty AR-15’s; twenty Uzi submachine guns; forty Glocks; ten tactical shot-guns; one-hundred thousand rounds of ammunition; high-capacity magazines where necessary…”

“Jesus,” Iggy sighed, and leaned back, smiling a little. “Should be a care-free ride.” This elicited a laugh from mostly everyone in the room, and despite the fucking shit-storm these trips were, Mickey felt excited, like his senses were heightened as they always were when he was about to go to work.

“You’ll be meeting with Maguire, at the Opera House,” Terry added, pulling a half-smoked cigar from his jacket pocket. “Friday at 8pm.”

“From the IFL?” Mickey asked, trying to recall their last meeting with Maguire and the Irish Faction of Loyalists; their name was deceiving, Mickey knew – they hadn’t actually been loyalists since the early nineties when the IRA and the troubles were running rampant in Ireland; now, they were basically a syndicate – a cartel running drugs and guns out of the Bronx. The IFL had a history of violence, but only to those who crossed them, and the Milkoviches had been lucky enough to find the common ground between them, and to never fall out of their good graces.

“Tommy is already there, acting as consul,” Terry finished, chewing the end of his cigar. Tommy had been part of the IFL before coming to Chicago and running the drug faction of the Milkovich Empire, and his presence would ensure trust between them while keeping ties strong.

Mickey nodded absently, glancing at his brothers as ideas began to form themselves inside his head; he knew the week ahead was going to be busy, filled with nothing much more than the making of plans, back-up plans, contingency plans, and he was glad that this was something he could do, and do fucking well. Absently though, he realized this meant he wouldn’t be seeing much of Ian, but that was probably a good thing, he thought; he didn’t need distractions. Not now.

Colin and Iggy came home with him, wanting to go over the coming drop-off of the cargo, as well as the trip itself, to ensure every detail was ironed out and nothing could possibly go wrong. Mickey grabbed them each a beer before heading into his room to change, pulling out his Ian phone and texting him quickly.

**Brothers are here. Gunna be a busy week planning the NY run. Can I call later?** He tossed the phone, shrugging out of his clothes and changing into a pair of track pants and his signature black tank-top; his phone buzzed.

**Ian: Of course.**

 **Ok.** He was about to head back out, when he added, **How are you feeling?**

 **Ian: Like shit. How’s the tattoo? LOL** Mickey shook his head and smiled to himself.

**Fuck off. Gotta go, I’ll ttyl.**

Mickey and Colin went online, buying two first-class tickets from O’Hare to JFK for a 4pm flight on Friday, which would get them into New York and to the hotel on time. Iggy would be getting there Thursday night after a day of driving, and would get the rooms head of time, moving some of the cargo up over the span of a few trips; most of it would stay in the truck, but people always needed assurances on the spot.

“Take one of each up, obviously,” Mickey said, sipping his beer as he glanced at Iggy. “You have the suit bag?”

“Yea,” Iggy admitted, and motioned in the general direction of his apartment across town. “At my place.” The suit bag had been modified, able to carry a suit of course, but it had a reinforced hanger and spine inside, where they cold strap weapons – or drugs – hanging it casually from the luggage cart with their bags and nobody was ever the wiser.

“I’ll switch you out after the exchange,” Colin put in then, glancing at Iggy. “I’ll come back with the money.”

“Better if two of us do it…”

“He’s right,” Mickey put in, and felt better at the idea of the two of them together. Colin glanced at him, and nodded, not wanting to argue.

“So you’ll fly back alone?” he asked Mickey, and Mickey was okay with the idea, but didn’t need to hurry, considering Ian would be at home until Sunday night.

“I can come, too, if we all feel better about it…”

“No,” Iggy said, finishing his beer before pushing the bottle aside. “It’ll take the whole of Saturday for us to get back.”

“And?”

“And Mandy and Pops shouldn’t be left alone for that long,” Colin put in, and Mickey understood. “Someone else needs to be here.”

“Alright,” Mickey agreed. “I’ll fly back Saturday morning first thing.” Mickey opened his laptop again, bringing up the flights page and searching for the earliest flight back to Chicago on Saturday morning. “Six am?”

“Good,” Colin said, and watched as Iggy got up to go to the bathroom. “What about Curtis?” he asked Mickey suddenly, when Iggy was out of sight, and Mickey glanced at him, scratching at his nose.

“He’ll be out of town, too,” Mickey admitted, not getting into detail.

“I’m working on something.” Colin tossed his empty bottle into the recycling bin and leaned forward. Mickey knew he meant he was working on something to get them out. “I’ve talked to Iggy about it.” Mickey’s eyebrows shot up at that, and he felt a little unsure.

“You did?”

“He agrees with me,” Colin admitted, and Mickey felt the unsure turn to relief. “We’re gunna get you out, we just have to iron out the details.”

“If Pops finds out…” Mickey started, but trailed off, not wanting to think of the consequences for all of them.

“He won’t, kid,” Colin said, and the way in which he said it made Mickey trust him more. “Just give me time.”

Mickey called Ian later, well after the sun had set and the city light’s had come alive.

“Hey,” he answered, and sounded tired.

“Did I wake you up, Cinderella?”

“No,” Ian laughed, soft air coming from the other end of the phone.

“How are you now?”

“Better,” he trailed off, and Mickey could hear him taking a sip of something. “Did you get the weekend sorted?”

“Yea.” Mickey went into his bedroom, putting the phone on speaker before pulling off his trackies and tank-top. “I fly out Friday afternoon, at four.”

“Can you take me home?” Ian asked then, randomly, and Mickey smiled. “Before you leave, I mean…”

“Yea, man.” Despite only being there once, in the rainy dark of night, Mickey remembered exactly how to get to Ian’s house.

“Okay.” They were quiet for a moment, both of them tired and still the smallest bit hung-over. “How dangerous is this weekend?” Ian inquired then, and Mickey could tell he was worried.

“Not very,” Mickey admitted, and it was the truth, sort of. Transporting illegal shit was actually fairly straightforward; it was the people you had to deal with that were the real worry – people were always more dangerous than the money, the guns, the drugs, or the chances of being caught, because people were unpredictable.

“How much money you bringing back?”

“I’m not,” Mickey said, and he thought he heard Ian exhale a breath. “Iggy and Colin are coming back with it; probably over a million.”

“Fuck,” Ian exclaimed, and despite not being able to see him, Mickey knew he was probably rubbing at his chin or his hair. “So when are _you_ coming back?”

“Saturday morning, earliest flight.” Mickey crawled into bed, plugging both his phones in, and setting the alarm on the other, since his clock was now out of fucking commission.

“I’ll take the El back Sunday evening,” Ian said then, and Mickey was about to offer to come pick him up, but he knew Ian would want to spend as much time with his family as possible, and Mickey would only be intruding, somehow, he was sure.

“Well I’ll be around so, you can call me if you change your mind.” Ian chuckled softly from the other end, and took a deep breath.

“I know, Mick.” Mickey liked when Ian called him Mick – it was casual, but somehow soft, and familiar, like it was family saying it.

“When are your dates this week?” Mickey asked then, not actually knowing if Ian had any, and tried not to let the small pang of jealousy fill him at the thought of random men dating his boyfriend. “Do you even have any?”

“Three,” Ian sighed, and Mickey could hear him tapping through his other phone, probably opening his calendar. “Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday.” Mickey went through this in his head, and realized that with the preparations during the week, Wednesday would probably be the only time he could see him before he took him home on Friday.

“I’ll probably only be able to see you Wednesday, then,” Mickey admitted, and felt a little sad at the prospect. “I have inventory runs, and quality checks before…”

“Wednesday it is, then,” Ian interrupted, and his voice was happy. “Just make it worth my while, Milkovich.” Mickey smiled to himself and yawned, his hand rubbing absently at his chest, fingers tracing Ian’s initials.

“I always do.”

Mickey stopped by Ian’s place late on Wednesday, after he and Colin had unloaded the last of the crates from the docks and put them onto the truck, ready for Iggy’s departure in the morning. He was tired, and becoming more on edge as the trip grew closer, but it only made him more aware of Ian’s presence as he came in the door, and Ian grabbed him at once, draping his arms over his shoulders as he hugged him into him, his lips pressing against his temples, between his eyes, beside his mouth, before finally finding its intended target, and Mickey opened to him, rejoicing in the comfort that flooded through him as his blood rushed automatically southward.

“I can’t wait,” Mickey whispered against his lips, and Ian reached down in answering, pulling Mickey’s shirt off. Ian kept kissing him, slowly pushing him backwards towards the bedroom, pieces of clothes falling off each of them one by one, leaving a trail behind them as they finally entered the bedroom, naked, and Ian laid down on the bed, taking himself in his hand, stroking himself methodically as he watched Mickey stand there, his own dick hardening like diamond as they stared at each other. Mickey didn’t think he’d ever get over the way Ian’s skin glowed blue in the light of the moon and the haze of the city lights around them – it turned him from porcelain to stone, and at the thought, Mickey realized he didn’t have to be as gentle.

“Come here,” Ian sighed, and reached over for the lube on the side table, squeezing a dollop into his hand before rubbing it over his tip, down along his veins, thrusting upwards into his hand as Mickey kneeled on the edge of the bed, crawling slowly over until he was above him, straddling his thighs. “Lean forward,” Ian breathed, and Mickey did, a hiss of breath escaping his teeth as Ian massaged his fingers against his ass, rubbing some of the lube around, pressing the smallest bit inside.

“I need my hands this time,” Mickey moaned, as Ian pressed his way in, filling him, and Ian simply nodded. 

Mickey sat back, breathing through the expansion as Ian went all the way in, and a small _ungh_ escaped Ian’s lips. Mickey leaned forward, then back again, letting Ian slip in and out of him, the movement much easier with the lube than it had been with just the spit, and Mickey felt the slickness within him as Ian pressed deeper, hitting his prostate slowly, and Mickey reached down in return, grabbing hold of his cock as his eyes closed, and he tugged it, rubbed it, teased his head the smallest bit, massaging out a string of precum.

“That’s so hot, Mickey,” Ian sighed, and Mickey glanced at him; Ian was watching his dick, as if just looking at it was going to send him all the way over the edge, and Mickey reached out then, grabbing Ian’s hand and wrapping it around his cock and holding it there, guiding it up and down with his own. “Oh fuck baby,” Ian sighed, his head falling back, and Mickey smiled at the word, the heat building within him.

“Don’t stop,” Mickey moaned, and Ian began to push deeper within him, hitting him in that sweet spot as Mickey moved their hands faster, the warmth inside of him growing, slowly, slowly. Ian’s free hand tightened on his ass then, and the sensation set Mickey’s teeth on edge.

“So fucking wet…” Ian sighed, and it was barely a whisper, but his face contorted, and Mickey knew he was close. Mickey rocked back faster in response, and dragged Ian’s hand to the tip of his dick, tightening it around his head as he began to move it faster, in shorter bursts, like he needed to; Ian’s eyes shot open then and he tilted his head up, watching the tip of Mickey’s cock appear and disappear in his own fist as Mickey moved it, and Ian suddenly pressed in deep, his eyes closing as he bared his teeth in a massive exhaling of breath, and Mickey arched at the movement, his own hand squeezing Ian’s so hard around his dick that he came instantly, cum pooling in a dent between Ian’s abs as Ian came inside of him, his cock pulsing and emptying, and the wetness was at once overwhelming, so Mickey pushed himself up, holding himself over Ian as they both glanced down, and the cum came pouring out, all over Ian’s pubes and his pelvis, and Mickey thought it was the hottest fucking thing he had ever seen or done.

“Holy fuck, Mickey,” Ian exhaled, and reached down, rubbing it into his hair before reaching up for Mickey’s face, pulling him down to rest on his chest, where he was starting to think he belonged.

The look of happiness on Ian’s face when Mickey picked him up on Friday was undeniable; Mickey kissed him when he got in the car, and Ian shoved his backpack between his legs, turning on the radio, which is something he usually only did when he was drunk. Despite the prospect of being so far away from him for the weekend, Mickey was fucking happy he was getting to go home.

“Would it be stupid if I said _happy one month_?” Ian asked suddenly, the contentment on his face making his skin actually glow, and Mickey shot him a look.

“What?”

“One month,” Ian answered simply, and raised an eyebrow at him. “It’s been one month Milkovich, since you picked me up at the Fairy Tale.” Mickey glanced out the windshield, going through their time together in his head; it had all happened so fast – with no regard for the way things are usually supposed to go in the real world – that Mickey hadn’t actually been paying attention; but Ian was right, it had been four weeks exactly.

“Guess it’s only fitting, then,” Mickey put in, pulling out onto the streets of Chicago.

“What is?”

“That I’m taking you home.” Ian glanced at him, his brows furrowing.

“Why?”

“Four weeks ago, I took you to your new home,” Mickey admitted then, and felt corny at the admission, but knew Ian would love it. “Now I’m taking you back to your first one…” Ian’s eyes met his suddenly, that tenderness falling over them that Mickey knew only showed itself when Ian was feeling soft, and Ian reached out, holding Mickey’s hand, just like Mickey had wanted him to do that very first night.

“Sensitive bitch,” Ian sighed, and smiled before opening his window, closing his eyes to the warm breeze that suddenly enshrouded him, his skin turning to gold in the afternoon sun, and Mickey almost swerved off the road entirely.

They pulled up in front of the small blue and white house, both of them glancing out the window as they did. Lip was sitting on the front porch, nursing a cigarette, and Mickey noticed absently he also seemed to have a nicotine patch on his arm, like he was _trying_ to quit, but it wasn’t going all that well. Lip squinted against the sun, his brows furrowing as he stared at the car, and Mickey remembered absently that his windows were tinted, and Lip couldn’t see his brother there in the passenger seat.

“I’ll see you in a few days?” Ian asked then, turning to face Mickey as he grabbed his backpack up from off the floor.

“You know it, Gallagher.”

“Text me when you land?” Ian undid his seatbelt, leaning over so he could kiss Mickey one more time, his mouth open, and Mickey let him in, tasting the sweetness of maple syrup from breakfast, and four whole weeks of whatever the fuck they had been to each other.

“Yea,” he sighed, and watched as Ian turned, smiling at him once more before opening the door. Mickey wanted suddenly to call out to him – to tell him he loved him – but since that morning together, neither of them had mentioned it again, so he left it for now, figuring when the time was right, it would come out once more; besides that, Ian already knew it was true, and Mickey was really bad at goodbyes.

~

Ian glanced back as Mickey peeled away from the curb, watching him go for just a second; he had wanted to tell him he loved him – to be safe – but Ian somehow knew that Mickey wouldn’t be one for sentimental goodbyes; besides, Mickey already knew it was true, and Ian knew in return that Mickey would always be safe; so Ian turned away, and Lip was suddenly in front of him.

“Holy shit!” Lip chuckled, and stood at once, flicking his cigarette out into the street. “About fucking time!” He hugged him then, and Ian held onto him a moment longer than was probably necessary, feeling that familiar comfort wash over him – that comfort that could only ever come from family.

“Long story,” Ian admitted, hitching his backpack up a little higher as Lip turned for the house, and Ian followed.

“You have a sugar daddy or what?” Lip asked, glancing down the street as the Audi disappeared around a corner. Ian had considered for weeks now how he was going to broach the subject of not only his job, but his boyfriend; in the end, this _was_ Lip, so he went with the truth.

“Boyfriend…” he trailed off, glancing at his brother, who raised his eyebrows, stopping at the top of the stairs in front of the door.

“No shit?”

“Yea, no shit.” Lip smiled that half-smile that only crossed his face when he was consumed with curious amusement.

“He got a name?”

_Fuck it_ , Ian thought, and hoped for the best.

“Uhh, Mickey…”

“Mickey?”

“Milkovich…?” Lip’s brows shot up, and he stepped back a bit, laughing suddenly as his hand went over his mouth.

“ _Milkovich_!?” he spat, and the look on his face made Ian bite his lip. “ _Like, Terry fucking Milkovich_!?”

“His youngest son…?” Ian admitted bluntly, and could no longer hold in his own surprise at the confession. Now that he could _finally_ talk about it with _someone_ , his nose crinkled up, like the realization of the entire situation was ridiculous, and his face squished together as he huffed air through his nose in amusement, just as confused as to how he had begun dating a Milkovich as his brother was.

“We’re goin’ to the Alibi,” Lip said then, opening the door. “I need to hear about this shit.”

Suddenly, Ian was inside, that familiar smell and warmth engulfing him as Debbie came out from the kitchen, her face instantly lighting up at the sight of her brother, and she ran to him.

“Ian!” she sighed, and flew into him, her weight pressing against him like love itself, and he hugged her tightly, letting her hair tickle his face for as long as it needed to.

“Yo Debs,” Lip put in then, grabbing a flannel from off the hook. “He’s dating a fucking Milkovich!” Debbie pulled back, a look of shock crossing her face as her mouth dropped open into a funny O shape.

“Are you insane?” she asked, and there was no intention behind the comment, it was just Debbie.

“I haven’t figured that out yet, Debs.” Ian grinned, and shrugged. “But let’s keep that between us for now…”

“We’re gunna go to the Alibi for a bit,” Lip interrupted, and headed for the door. “Tell Tami we’ll be back in a few hours...”

“Is Freddie not here?” Ian asked then, his mood sinking, but only slightly; he had been hoping to see his nephew, whom he’d only held a handful of times.

“No they went to her sister’s but, they’ll be back by the time we’re home.”

“Is Franny here at least?” Ian inquired, and Debbie smiled, tilting her head towards the back door.

“Outside, playing with Liam. Carl’s at work.” Ian smiled widely, holding up a finger to his brother in a _give-me-one-second_ gesture before tossing his bag onto the couch as he headed for the back door, and his entire being was overcome with happiness as he opened it, sunlight falling over him as he looked out at his baby brother, his niece, and almost all the things he loved in the world were suddenly around him, and he was home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will take place in two parts - Ian at home, and Mickey in New York!  
> While writing this chapter, I thought a lot about family, and just how much they're going to shape and mould what's coming - and the answer is, A LOT.  
> Ian's dancing to Born Slippy by Underworld while he danced for Mickey, mostly because this was the first song I thought of, and it somehow seemed ridiculously perfect, and I can imagine Ian moving to it.  
> Mickey only has knuckle tattoos as in this AU, as he obviously never went to Mexico, where it's presumed he got his arm tattoo.


	7. Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian and Mickey spend a hectic, lazy weekend apart as new truths are realized, and family comes through, as always.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is written differently than my previous ones - it is written in two separate parts: the weekend from Ian's perspective, and then halfway through there's a time-jump backwards so it can be retold from Mickey's perspective.  
> I really enjoyed this one, especially getting to explore both the Gallaghers, and the Milkoviches!  
> Thank you to everyone who has read, commented, whatever! I appreciate you all so much; and if you would like updates or weekly excerpts, please feel free to follow me on Twitter @WhatsaMattavich !!!

Walking to the Alibi – like walking anywhere on the South Side, really – was like riding a bicycle, Ian thought; he would never in a million years forget how to get there; in fact, he was sure that if he closed his eyes at the bottom of their front porch – and kept them closed – he would arrive at that weathered red door without having had a single misstep.

Lip opened that door now, letting Ian go in ahead of him; the sudden, familiar smell of beer and peanuts calmed him at once, and he closed his eyes for just a second – letting the sound of ESPN and the clicking of pool balls enter into his mind and rest a moment – before he opened them again, and it all went to shit.

“Well if it isn’t my homosexual bastard son,” Frank said suddenly, slipping off his barstool; the jerk-y movement caused beer to spill out of the glass in his hand onto the floor, and Ian rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Frank,” he mumbled, and there was no tone of warmth in it – there never was. Frank sauntered over – clearly the worse for wear – and set his hand on Ian’s shoulder, squeezing it gently.

“Iss been a few weeks,” he slurred. “Where you been?” It had actually been a few months, but of course Frank wouldn’t know the difference.

“Working,” Ian hissed, shrugging Frank’s hand from off his shoulder.

“Got a few bucks to spare for your old man?”

“Fuck off, Frank,” Lip spat, and Ian smiled at his brother – he had _missed_ this. They strolled over to a booth and slid in across from each other – leaving Frank to mumble absently to himself as he went back to his stool – when Kev appeared suddenly from the back, carrying a full keg, and Ian got up, walking to the end of the counter and lifting the flap so he could saunter in behind the bar; Kev glanced up at the movement, and his face spread into that smile that only Kev could give before he dropped the keg onto the ground with an unbelievably loud bang that reverberated throughout the floorboards.

“Well holy shit!” he exclaimed, and came forward, giving Ian a hug with those massive arms that Ian had always appreciated, in more ways than one. “When did you get back!?”

“Just now, actually.” Kev held Ian out and away from him then, glancing over his body as if checking to see he were still in one piece.

“Well shit, you look good, man!”

“Thanks,” Ian grinned, and glanced around. “Is V here?”

“No she’s with the girls.”

“How are they?” 

“Fuckin’ good, man,” Kev sighed, popping a toothpick between his teeth before coming in for another hug, squeezing way harder than was necessary. “You keepin’ safe?” Ian appreciated that Kev would always ask that, no matter how old he got, or how much he grew up.

“Always,” Ian admitted, and it was as true as it could be. Kev punched him lightly on the shoulder and glanced over to where Lip was sitting.

“I’ll bring you guys some Cokes.” Ian nodded, and sauntered back.

“Mr. Fuckin’ Popular,” Lip laughed, and Ian thought suddenly of Mickey, and how he had used those exact same words to describe him just a couple of weeks before as they had lain in bed together. Ian’s chest tightened a little at the thought, and he hoped absently that Mickey’s flight would go well, and that he would stay safe, all those miles away…

They chatted about this and about that; about Freddie and how big he was getting; about Tami and the new place down the block that Lip had rented and was currently elbow-deep in renovating; about Liam’s schooling and Carl’s attempt at making tamales for girl he liked or – as Lip put it – was at least trying to bone. Kev came and sat with them for a while, pulling up a chair and sitting backwards on it as he told Ian about Amy and Gemma and _their_ schooling; about the bar; the gym he was considering opening up next door if V would let him; and before they knew it, a whole hour and a half had passed them by, talking about nothing much more than Lip, the family, Kev, _his_ family, and nothing ever even came close to broaching the subject of Ian’s personal life; but he knew that couldn’t last forever, so he took a sip of his drink and set it down, waiting for the question he knew would come, and smiling to himself when it finally did.

“So, spill the beans, douchebag,” Lip said finally, pushing his phone aside after Kev had left the table.

“What time is it?” Ian asked instead, absently remembering Mickey’s flight, and Lip raised an eyebrow at him before looking at his screen.

“Three-thirty.” Ian nodded at this, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his Mickey phone.

**Have a safe flight. Text me when you land.** he messaged, and wasn’t even sure Mickey would get it, as he was probably already boarded, sipping Scotch in his first-class seat. Ian set the phone aside on the table, and Lip glanced up at him.

“Boyfriend?” he asked, and Ian bit his lip.

“Yea.”

“Well let’s fuckin’ hear it!” Lip sat back, resting his arm up along the top of the booth, and Ian’s phone vibrated then – the screen lighting up – and the picture of Mickey driving was on full display. Ian saw Lip glance at it. “Is that him!?”

“Fuck off,” Ian snorted, opening the text.

**Mickey: I will, baby.** Ian smiled at this, and knew it wasn’t said so much out of sentiment as it was in jesting; but either way, it set his insides on fire.

“Look at that stupid smile on your face!” Lip teased, and leaned forward, grabbing Ian’s phone from out of his hand and clicking the screen back on so he could look at the picture of Mickey.

“He’s…” Ian trailed off, not really knowing what to say as he fingered the bracelet at his wrist, feeling the leather as if it were Mickey himself. Lip glanced up at him from under his dirty-blonde lashes and pulled out a cigarette.

“Start from the beginning,” he said, so Ian did.

Lip was fully aware of Shea Sirko already and Ian’s work at the Fairy Tale, but every detail since that trade-off four weeks ago had been a mystery to both him, and everyone else besides Mickey; so Ian started with that first night, and told his brother about the Audi; about the sedan and the Glock; about the new apartment that was too big for any single person; about his colossal mix-up about Mickey’s identity; about the yacht; the fight; their first time; their second and third; their feelings – however unexplainable; their argument; Ian’s birthday; and their decision to get the fuck out, and get out together.

Lip’s brows were completely furrowed by the time Ian finished the back-story, and he hadn’t said a single word the whole time; he had just nodded along – raising his eyebrows, laughing a little – and Ian was just thankful that there was finally someone who would just fucking _listen,_ and maybe tell him if he _was_ crazy, or what the fuck it was he was supposed to do…

“So you love him,” Lip said finally, and Ian met his gaze; he didn’t know why but he felt ridiculous at the statement, like it couldn’t possibly be true, after four little weeks.

“Yea,” he admitted anyways, and knew Lip would tell him his honest opinion either way. “I think I do.”

“Why do you say _think_?” Lip leaned forward on the table, his eyes intent on his brother. Ian considered this, flopping the idea around – back and forth – in his head.

“Because to say that I _do_ love him seems stupid,” he confessed. “After only a month…”

“Why are you so focused on time?” Lip scratched absently at the back of his head, looking briefly away towards Frank. “Do you remember Gus and fuckin’ Fiona?” Ian smiled at the memory – like he could ever forget – and they both laughed.

“Yea.”

“Yea,” Lip repeated. “Or Debbie and Derek?”

“What’s your point?”

“My point is that Gallagher’s never do things half-ass, Ian. When we go in, we go in hard, all the way, and time never fuckin’ matters; and despite how hard we fuckin’ try man, we always fall harder for crazy.” Ian heard this – _really_ heard it – and let it settle deep into his bones; he knew Lip was right, and he felt better at the speaking of it, as if a small piece inside of him shifted suddenly, and nestled into its rightful place. “You fell for Caleb basically the moment you saw him,” Lip continued, sipping his drink. “Same with Trevor…”

“Yea but I didn’t fall in _love_ with them...”

“Yea, probably because they were pretty fuckin’ boring, Ian,” Lip admitted, smiling, and Ian let a huff of air escape his nose in amusement. “Aren’t you starting to notice a bit of a pattern…?”

“Mickey _is_ pretty fucked up,” he confessed, and Lip must have been right about this, too, because the thought didn’t deter him, it made his heart beat a little faster, and warmth spread throughout him at the saying of his name, like they really were just two fucked up pieces of the same puzzle.

“Exactly,” Lip sighed, leaning back again. “Your chaos fits his, and he understands it.” Ian glanced off towards the pool table, his eyes focusing on nothing in particular as he thought about this, his fingers drumming absently on the side of his glass. “What’s he like?” Lip asked then, and Ian snorted.

“Sarcastic. Stubborn; grumpy; controlled; collected – most of the time; protective; tough; insane…” Ian glanced back at Lip, who was trying to control a tight-lipped grin from spreading further across his face, and Ian laughed a little. “But he’s different with me, somehow,” Ian admitted. “He’s soft sometimes; caring; shy; nervous; open…”

“How’s the sex?” Lip interrupted, and Ian chewed his lip for a second, remembering…

“The sex is fucking fantastic.” He sat for a moment, fiddling with the edge of the coaster in front of him, letting his mind wander through different memories – not just with Mickey, but all the guys he’d fucked, dated, whatever. It had taken Ian a little while to figure out what it was about Mickey that made him so different – besides the stuff that Lip had just pointed out – but he thought he knew now, and despite not wanting to sound soft in front of his brother, he _wanted_ to tell him, because if he couldn’t tell Lip, he’d never be able to tell anybody. “I thought of him once as a lighthouse, kinda,” Ian confessed, a little unsure, and Lip raised an eyebrow.

“Huh?”

“He’s like a lighthouse, I think,” Ian continued, and didn’t look away as he tried to explain to Lip how he hadn’t been in the best place; that fuck, he had been trying for so long to figure out how the Hell he had ended up where he did – dancing for random fucking strangers who shoved money in his shorts and into the palms of his hands as they grazed their fingers over his own, like they even stood a chance. He tried to explain how it was like he was lost at sea, and it had been really fucking dark and stormy inside his head – all around him – and nothing made sense; he didn’t have a handle on where land was anymore, or how to go about getting back to it; but then that trade-off came, and Ian had resigned himself to being sucked further into the abyss when Mickey had walked into that back room, and his suddenness – his chaos that reminded Ian of home and all the things he thought he couldn’t find again – was like a glimmer of light suddenly shining from somewhere in the darkness, and every day Ian spent with him – saw him, spoke to him, text him – that light grew a bit brighter, and Ian drifted a bit closer to shore. Then they had fucked that first time and it was like Mickey was no longer just a metaphor; he was a real person who had tossed him a rope, and was pulling him back towards home of his own free will, doing all the work so Ian could rest – so he could stop trying to keep his head above water – because he was there now, and he would gladly take that burden from him. Then, only a week ago, Ian had realized that Mickey had finally pulled him all the way in to shore, and although they hadn’t yet found shelter – like Mickey was still dragging him up the banks – that lighthouse was in sight – just up the hill, just out of reach – and together Ian knew they could get there, and find some sense of…peace.

Ian stopped then, his eyes on the tabletop as he felt the burning of emotion behind them; he rubbed them absently, sniffing loudly as he came suddenly back to reality. Lip was staring at him, a look on his face that Ian saw was full of understanding, but also a small bit of guilt for the fact that _he_ couldn’t have been the one there to save him himself, like a big brother should have done.

“Jesus,” Lip whispered then, rubbing absently at his nose. “If it was that bad Ian, you should have come home…”

“I couldn’t,” he admitted. “This business is uhh, not the easiest to leave.”

“But Mickey’s working on something?”

“Yea.” Ian leaned forward on the table, finishing the last sip of his Coke. “But that means…” he trailed off, not knowing how to say it to Lip, of all people.

“What?”

“We may have to disappear for a while.” Lip leaned back at that, looking away as he took it in; there was concern on his face, but more than that, there was thought.

“We’ll survive,” he said after a minute, the corner of his mouth pulling up the smallest bit. “If it means you can get the fuck out, Ian, we’ll fucking survive.”

Ian got the text from Mickey just as they were turning the corner onto South Wallace, he and Lip walking side by side, sharing a cigarette like they had done as kids – as teenagers – kicking at stones and old beer cans left haphazardly on the sidewalk.

**Mickey: Landed. Just heading to hotel.** Attached to the text was a picture of downtown Manhattan, clearly taken from out a car window as Mickey headed over Brooklyn Bridge. Ian grinned at it, looking at the skyscrapers and blue sky, and wished absently that one day maybe he could see New York; maybe even see it with Mickey.

**I’m jealous.** he typed, and took a selfie there in the street before sending it, flipping Mickey the bird as his cigarette hung limp from between his lips.

**Mickey: I’m jealous of that cigarette.** Ian felt the heat rise within him.

**Just wait ‘til you get back…**

 **Mickey: Counting down the fuckin’ minutes.** With that, Ian smiled fully, tucking his phone back into his pocket.

Ian was sitting on the couch, slowly – _slowly_ – nursing a beer. Much to his disappointment, Freddie wasn’t home when they had returned; Tami had stayed at her sister’s, and Lip had been instructed to pick them up before dinner. He was wondering absently when Carl would be home when the door suddenly opened – as if on cue – and Carl came through, hair a mess and teeth showing; he tossed his backpack onto the floor at the bottom of the stairs before coming up behind Ian and throwing his arms tightly around his neck; he then hopped up and over the back of the couch, causing Ian to bend forward awkwardly as Carl pinned his head to the cushions.

“Fuckin’ stranger in my house…” Carl hissed, and laughed as Ian tried to reach out and set his beer down on the coffee table, but he missed and it spilt onto the floor. Ian reached his arm up in return, managing to wrap it around Carl’s neck before pulling him down into the puddle where he pinned him in a headlock.

“Fuckin’ kid thinkin’ he’s tough all of a sudden…”

“Tougher than you!” Carl spat, and dug a fist into Ian’s ribs, trying and failing to push him over.

“Cut it out,” Debbie spat then, coming down the stairs and kicking absently at Ian’s head as she went for the kitchen. “And clean that beer up.”

“Yes Debbie,” Ian sighed, slightly out of breath as he let go of Carl and leaned back against the couch, tousling the messy brown hair on Carl’s head. “Go get a towel, shithead.”

“I thought all those nights grinding old fat dudes would have softened you up a bit,” Carl said, half-smile pulling up one side of his mouth as he sauntered into the kitchen, grabbed a tea-towel and chucked it directly into Ian’s face.

“You’d be surprised.”

“Makin’ good money at least?” Ian laughed a little as he soaked up the beer; Carl had always been all about business.

“Can’t complain.” Ian suddenly remembered the envelope he had in his bag – the cash he had been saving up in his freezer to bring home – and slapped the beer-soaked towel onto Carl’s head as he stood. “Go get changed man, you fuckin’ reek.” Carl flipped him the bird but went up the stairs, and Ian grabbed the envelope from the front pocket. “Yo Lip!” he yelled, strolling into the kitchen, where Debbie was hard at work making spaghetti.

“Yea?”

“Get the fuck down here!” Lip came bounding down the back stairs at that, his button-up shirt undone; underneath his white tank-top was stained a little with what Ian thought was probably baby food.

“What’s up?”

“Here.” Ian handed him the envelope and sat down on one of the stools. “For you and Debs.” Debbie glanced up at hearing her name, and Lip raised an eyebrow.

“What is it?”  
“Money.” Lip slid his finger under the flap and ripped it, opening it just enough that he could thumb over all the bills inside.

“Jesus, how much is this?” Lip asked, and tilted the envelope so Debbie could see it.

“Just over seven thousand.”

“Seven _thousand_!?” Debbie spat, grabbing the envelope from Lip’s hand and glancing inside.

“Use it for renos,” Ian said then, scratching absently at his jaw. “Bills, baby food, whatever. Just split it.”

“Split what?” Carl came back down into the kitchen and raised an eyebrow in questioning.

“Ian’s loaded now,” Lip answered, rubbing absently at Ian’s head as Ian rolled his eyes and slapped his hand away; but it was such a brotherly gesture that he smiled despite himself, happy he could do _something_.

“Maybe I should get into the escort business,” Carl teased, and winked at Ian in a flirtatious way that only Carl could pull off before he grabbed his sweater from off the table. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

“It’s almost dinner!” Debbie yelled, handing the envelope back to Lip before pointing at the massive pot of boiling noodles. “Where are you going?”

“To see my senorita.” Lip snorted at that, which made Ian bite his lip. “I’ll be quick.”

“Yea I bet you will be,” Ian put in, and Carl flipped them both the bird before disappearing out the back.

Dinner at the Gallagher house was always an event, even when Frank wasn’t there – which luckily he wasn’t; he was staying at some woman’s house up in Glencoe. Ian went upstairs, hauling his backpack into the room at the end of the hall and throwing it onto his old bed in the corner – under the posters he had hung years ago, beside the dresser he used to keep his meds in – before sauntering down the hall to Liam’s room.

“Dinner,” he said, rapping quickly on the doorframe; Liam looked up from the colouring book he was working on with Franny.

“Spaghetti again?” he asked, and sounded rather unimpressed. He stood, putting a hand out for their niece.

“What else does Debbie know how to cook!?” Ian knew Debbie could actually cook quite a few things, but it was a full table tonight, and that meant go with whatever you could cook the most of in the least amount of time. Ian pulled gently on Franny’s pigtails as she walked by, and she giggled, her head turning quickly to look at him with a wide, toothy grin before she went down the stairs ever so carefully, taking one step at a time – hand always on the railing – and Ian smiled all the way down behind her.

“Sit here, sweetie,” Debbie cooed, picking her up and placing her onto a chair before slicing up her noodles into smaller pieces in a tiny pink bowl. Ian took a seat on one of the wooden stools and watched his sister for a moment, and he realized that the longer he was home, the more pride he felt – pride at how well they’d all done without anyone besides Fiona showing them the way. Liam was a straight-A student; Carl – despite his flaws – always gave it his all; Debbie was a good mother; and Lip – Lip was a good father, Ian thought, as he came suddenly through the back door with Tami, Freddie hoisted up in his arms. Ian stood at once, coming around the table and leaning down to look into his nephew’s small, round face.

“Hey, Freddie!” he sighed, and cupped the back of his head with a hand that nearly engulfed his entire skull. “I’m your uncle Ian, remember!?” Freddie looked at him, his huge blue eyes glancing over his face as if it were the most amazing thing he’d ever seen.

“So good to see you,” Tami whispered, wrapping an arm around Ian’s waist as she squeezed him; he hugged her back – letting his cheek rest for a moment on the top of her head – and noticed absently that she smelt like coconuts. Ian glanced back into Freddie’s eyes one more time, and noticed suddenly they were starting to look a lot like Lip’s.

“God he looks like you, man.”

“You think?” Lip hoisted his son up higher, looking at his face.

“Fucking Gallagher through and through,” Tami spat, and they all smiled at the tone with which she said it. Debbie lifted the massive pot from the stove and carried it to the table.

“Let’s eat.”

“Wait!” A voice came suddenly, and Ian lifted his head at the familiar cadence, his face splitting into the widest of grins as V came through the front door, Kev hot on her heels. “Ian!” she yelled, and was on him in a heartbeat as he strode straight into the living room. He leaned forward, letting her wrap her arms around his neck as he hugged her waist, and whereas Tami smelt like coconuts, V smelt like the South Side, and Ian knew it was the closest he was going to get to hugging Fiona, or his mother.

“Fuck I’ve missed you guys!” he admitted – meaning every single one of them – and the love he had as he looked around the house filled him all the way to the fucking brim, and suddenly all around him was noise – was chatter and chaos – and he closed his eyes as he disappeared into his favourite music.

“Where the fuck is Carl?”

“With Anne.”

“Again?”

“Liam sit over there.”

“Fine.” A police car passed the house then, sirens blaring, followed quickly by another.

“No Franny use your fork.”

“Lip make a note we need more diapers!”

“Kev get your ass up and help Debbie with the plates.”

“Mmm I like when you boss me around.” A handful of firecrackers went off somewhere down the street.

“Ian!?”

‘Yea?” he called, turning back towards the kitchen then as Carl came through the door.

“Finally.”

“Whatever I’m on time.”

“Okay let’s eat, Jesus!”

Ian took his seat at the head of the table, and every chair was full; every plate piled with canned sauce and noodles; every glass filled with _something_ ; and Ian thought absently about that old proverb from the Bible or whatever – that his own cup runneth over.

At least, for now.

By the time dinner was finished and all conversations had dwindled down to almost nothing, Freddie was upstairs asleep, and Franny was dozing in and out of consciousness in Debbie’s lap right there at the table. Ian took his phone out to look at the time, and thought absently that Mickey’s meeting would be well underway by now, and fuck he hoped everything was fine. He wanted to call him – to text him – but knew he’d probably be busy. _Then again_ , he thought, _fuck it_ ; Ian would feel better knowing he sent _something._

**Text me when you can.** was all he wrote, and he dragged his thumb across Mickey’s picture before shoving it back into his pocket.

“Do we get to know anything more about this Milkovich of yours?” V asked, though Ian had already told them basically everything. “Does he rock your world?” She swiveled her hips at this, and Ian snorted, thinking those words were fairly accurate.

“Please don’t give us details,” Carl pleaded, and Liam raised his eyebrows at that, standing up from the table and heading directly up to his room.

“Fuck off,” Ian spat, and slapped at his brother’s head. “But yea V, he does.” In fact, Mickey had become somewhat of an oddity to him when it came to sex; he clearly hadn’t been all that experienced before Ian had turned up, but he still managed to do things that drove Ian wild – that surprised him – and Ian grinned at the memory of their last time having sex on Wednesday, when Mickey had pushed himself up there at the end like he was in a fucking porno, letting Ian’s cum drip out of him as he held his dick up against his stomach so they could watch, and just the image seared into Ian’s mind made him semi-hard at the table.

He got up without another word, collecting the plates and taking them to the sink so he could rinse and wash them. Tami followed his lead, grabbing a tea-towel from the laundry basket in the corner so she could dry before coming up behind him and placing a gentle hand on his back, just to let him know she was there; she eyed Lip then with a raised eyebrow and a shrug that feigned annoyance, and Lip stood with a sigh, coming to be the third man in their assembly line that got to put everything away. It was crammed in that kitchen – even with just the three of them standing there – and Ian thought absently how if they all came over to his place and looked out at the city together – if they lined up side by side along his half-wall of windows – they’d still have room to spare.

“So we’ll come by around eight tomorrow?” V asked then, rubbing her hand over Kev’s shaved head as she stood, grabbing her purse from off the floor. Ian remembered absently the birthday party they had planned…

“Yea, or earlier,” Lip shrugged, shoving a plate into the cupboard. It was just a well-known fact that Kev and V could come over whenever the fuck they wanted.

“Can you still pick up the cake?” Debbie asked, and V nodded.

“Mhmm.”

“No gifts,” Ian put in, just for good measure, and everyone rolled their eyes. Cake was expected, but never gifts – not in the Gallagher house.

“Yea we know,” they all groaned at the same time, and Ian chewed his lip to keep from laughing.

It was around eleven by the time Ian crawled into bed; it was earlier than he usually would have gone, but he was tired from being so content all day; and now, he was also just the littlest bit nervous, too, as he hadn’t heard a single word from Mickey. Out of habit, he glanced once more at his phone, even though it hadn’t vibrated since he first picked it up.

Carl came through the door then, stripping down to his boxers and tossing his clothes into a dirty pile on the floor before climbing up onto his top bunk, letting his head rest on his hands as he glanced at Ian, just like he had done all those years ago.

“You love this Anne girl?” Ian asked him randomly, trying to find that sense of sound and conversation that had lulled him to sleep every night for years; Carl glanced away, flopping onto his back and staring up at the ceiling.

“I like how she smells.” Ian smiled to himself at that.

“I know what you mean.” Maybe that was a Gallagher thing…

Ian’s phone finally vibrated then beside him, and he grabbed it immediately.

**Mickey: Just got back. Sorry I’m late…** Ian breathed then – a deep, calming breath – and when he exhaled, all his worries left him, and he was left with nothing but that contentedness.

**Did it go well?**

**Mickey: Yea.**

**Good. You should probably get some sleep, you have an early flight…**

**Mickey: I wanna see you.** Ian felt his stomach tighten at that; he wasn’t sure if Mickey meant in general, or if he wanted to call him.

 **You want to FaceTime?** That was something they had never actually done, and it stupidly excited him.

 **Mickey: Depends, Gallagher. Are you alone?** All of the blood in Ian’s body raced directly south at that – at the thought of doing what he knew they were about to do – and once more he was surprised by Mickey’s ability to find new ways to be dirty, in all the _best_ ways. Ian glanced up at Carl, who was now perusing through his own phone, face lit up by the glow.

“Hey, get the fuck out,” he hissed, and Carl eyed him, raising an eyebrow.

“Why?”

“You wanna see my dick?” Carl rolled his eyes dramatically before throwing his blanket back and hopping down onto the floor.

“Make it quick,” he groaned, sauntering out into the hallway before slamming the door.

**Yea, Milkovich. I am now…** Ian combed his hand absently through his hair to settle it back into place, and a second later his phone rang.

Ian was smiling before Mickey’s face even came into view, and though it had only been a handful of hours since they’d seen each other, Ian had almost forgotten how beautiful he was; his black hair was greased back in that way he did it for more formal occasions – like their date – and he was clearly in bed, sitting up against a dark wooden headboard. Ian noticed at once that he was shirtless – his wide, pale shoulders taking up the entire lower half of the screen – and Ian’s black initials were there above his heart. There was a lamp on somewhere close beside him, as the shadow of his nose across his cheek from the light falling on his face was so sharp that it created a perfectly straight line to his jaw.

“Hey,” Mickey sighed, softly, rubbing his eyebrow as if he were nervous, and Ian loved his little ticks even more now that they were apart.

“Hey.” Ian dragged his free hand absently over his own shoulder as he looked at him, feeling his skin ripple at the softness of his own touch and Mickey’s voice, which he just now discovered could turn him on entirely. He trailed it down his stomach – toying with the hair there – just touching himself in the smallest of ways, and _fuck_ he wished he were there with him. Ian felt himself hardening, blood rushing downwards as that warmth ebbed outwards from his pelvis.

“How’s home?” Mickey’s eyes glanced downwards as Ian’s hand passed by again, and he rubbed it purposefully along his chest before gently fingering his clavicle, his jaw, and Ian knew _exactly_ what he was trying to do.

“Great.” He licked deliberately at his bottom lip before dragging his top teeth across it, slowly.

“Fuck off, Ian,” Mickey whispered, but it was almost a moan, and he closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose, and Ian knew he was just as turned on as he was.

“Touch yourself,” Ian said bluntly, the whispering of it making him fully hard as Mickey exhaled a soft breath at his words. Ian grasped tightly then to this newfound confidence – letting it turn him into someone new – and in the moment, he was entirely thankful for Lip, because Lip had helped him understand this – what _this_ was between himself and Mickey – and he let the realization consume him.

Ian reached down, pushing back the blanket and shoving at the waist of his boxers until his dick fell backwards, hard against the red hair below his navel. He glanced purposefully down at it, letting a loud hiss of air escape his lips as he wrapped his fingers around himself, making sure his face contorted just enough that Mickey would see every hint of pleasure as he jerked at his own touch.

“Fuck, Ian,” Mickey whimpered. “Are you jacking off?” Ian looked back up at the screen, and the hunger in Mickey’s eyes made a drop of precum form at his tip as he massaged it, nodding breathlessly. Mickey leaned back a little then, wiggling himself into a more comfortable position, and Ian watched as his eyes shifted downwards, and it was clear by the way his brows furrowed and his mouth dropped open that he _was_ touching himself. Ian felt his cock twitch as small puffs of air began to escape Mickey’s lips.

“You’re so hot, baby,” Ian moaned; he said the word because he knew what it would do in the moment, and he reached his hand up then, spitting into it in full view of Mickey before rubbing it over his head, all the ways down to his balls and back again, a breathy “ _fuuuuck”_ escaping his lips as he did so.

“Jesus Christ,” Mickey panted, and Ian saw his shoulder shifting ever so slowly, the light from the lamp casting shadows over the muscles in his arm as it moved, and Ian didn’t have to imagine Mickey jacking off – pulling on his own cock, the precum dripping out of the top, making him wet.

“Turn your camera around,” Ian breathed, trying not to close his eyes as he tightened his grip on his own dick, moving his fist faster as he watched his boyfriend’s mouth drop open in pleasure; he hit absently at his own screen so that it flipped suddenly, and his own cock was there for Mickey to see. Mickey’s brows furrowed the smallest bit, a small moan escaping his lips at the sight, and Ian moved his hand slowly – deliberately – for him; up, over the tip, and back down again, placing his index and middle fingers in a V shape at his base as he pushed, felt the pressure, before repeating the motion.

“You’re so wet,” Mickey hissed, and Ian could see the sheen of spit on his dick. Suddenly Mickey’s screen shifted and his own cock was on full display – pink, plump, hard as a rock, and the sight of his tattooed fingers grasping at his head, sliding that precum Ian loved so much down to the base, making his black hair damp, made that warmth inside of him start to grow.

“Don’t fucking stop,” Ian panted, and watched as Mickey’s hand moved faster, a wet sound coming through the speaker that made Ian’s balls tighten and his own speed increase.

“Yea fuck that fist,” Mickey spat, and the words made Ian exhale loudly, his nipples harden, and he knew exactly what Mickey wanted; he held his fist steady then, and began thrusting his hips upwards, pounding his dick into his own hand.

“Oh shit, Mickey.” Ian was imagining it was Mickey’s asshole, and all at once he glanced desperately at the screen, and he could see Mickey’s belly twitching as he breathed short, quivering breaths, his fist suddenly moving to the tip of his dick in shorter bursts like he did when he was about to cum. “Fuck…are you…gunna cum Mickey?” he moaned, and barely had enough breath for the words as his own stomach tightened.

“Yea…gunna fuckin’…cum baby,” Mickey breathed, and suddenly he tilted his dick up towards the phone, three longs ropes of it shooting up his belly towards the camera as he grunted loudly, and Ian fucking lost it.

“Oh _fuck_ ,” he whined, his voice so high he was sure everyone in the house probably heard him cum then, his own strings pooling out onto his belly as he shook, his eyes pressing closed for only a moment as his orgasm racked him entirely and everything behind his lids went white.

“Fuck you’re so sexy,” Mickey sighed after a second, and Ian opened his eyes just in time to see Mickey’s head fall back against the headboard before his phone flopped down into his lap. Ian set his own down on the side-table, and he thought absently that that had been the hottest fucking thing he had ever done or seen on a phone, and Ian had watched a _lot_ of fucking porn…

He grabbed his t-shirt off the floor, dabbing away his cum before it dried, and laid his head back onto his pillow; they sat like that for a few minutes, just listening to the sound of each other’s breath slowing there in the dim glow of lamp-light as their cameras faced the ceiling, and Ian felt the happiness within him turn to comfort.

“I kinda miss you,” he admitted then, and he figured he said it because of the hormones rushing through him – the oxytocin or serotonin or whatever – and he felt his face flush at the fact that it had only been about nine or ten hours since they’d seen each other. Ian turned his head as he heard Mickey shuffling around, picking up his phone, so Ian did the same; Mickey’s face was flushed from the exertion, and Ian could see from the corner screen that his was as well – both of them having a sheen of sweat on their chests and foreheads.

“Can’t even go a whole day, huh?” Mickey teased, and fuck it, he was right; it _hadn’t_ even been a whole day and he wanted him back in his arms – the man who was pulling him home – and hated that it would still be two days before he would see him.

“I talked about you today,” Ian confessed then, and sat up against the wall, pulling his knees up so he could balance the phone on top.

“Oh yea?” Mickey reached out of screen, pulling a cigarette back into view and lighting it before sliding it between his pouty lips. Ian was sure he probably wasn’t allowed to smoke in his hotel room, but the fact that Mickey did it anyways made his South Side heart stutter.

“Yea.”

“Everyone tell you to get the fuck out while you still can?” Ian could tell he was trying to joke, but he could also hear the tone of worry behind it.

“Basically,” he admitted, trying to be facetious, but Mickey’s face fell just the smallest bit, so Ian smiled at him, needing at once to ease his mind. “Don’t worry, they meant get out of the _business_ , Mick, not out of things with…you.” The corner of Mickey’s mouth pulled up a little at that.

“Did you tell them we’re working on it?”

“Yea.” Ian was going to leave it at that, but wanted suddenly to _give_ Mickey something – to let him know he was sure of him – so he added, “I trust you, y’know?” and thought that was probably the most meaningful thing he could say. Mickey was quiet for a moment, his blue eyes staring thoughtfully back at him as he exhaled a lungful of smoke.

“I love you,” he said then, and it was the first time he had said it since that morning, and Ian noticed that this time he had actually said it – not _I think_ I love you, but the real thing. Ian stared at Mickey’s face – glancing over every soft, little detail – and thought that _that_ was probably the most meaningful thing Mickey could have said back to him, and he wasn’t going to leave him out on the shore alone.

“I love you, too.”

They talked for only a few minutes more, whispering their little _be-safes_ , _see-you-soons_ , and _goodbyes_ before finally hanging up. When they did, and everything was quiet again, Ian rejoiced in the fact that he could still hear the echoes of Mickey’s voice inside his head, just like he had that very first weekend; and if he hadn’t been so tired – hadn’t _just_ blown his load – he may have masturbated again. Instead, he grabbed his personal phone from off the dresser and messaged Carl, telling him it was safe to come back up; but when he didn’t get a reply – and nobody came back up the stairs – he figured his brother was sound asleep on the couch. Ian leaned over, fishing his headphones out of his backpack before hooking them into his Mickey phone, and fuck it, he looked up his favourite ASMR videos – took a screenshot and sent it to Mickey to make him smile – and closed his eyes.

About half-an-hour later, as he was drifting off into oblivion, Ian’s eyes suddenly fluttered open at the text alert sound, the banner with Mickey’s name floating down at the top of the screen. Ian tapped it, and was suddenly in his messages; but it wasn’t a text, it was a voice-note file, and Ian clicked on it; he saw it was almost twenty minutes long before Mickey’s voice was suddenly in his ears, and he smiled so widely there in the dark that he thought if someone could see him, he’d probably look insane. 

“ _Hey_ ,” Mickey whispered, and the sound sent tingles throughout Ian’s entire body. “ _I thought if anyone was going to whisper in your fuckin’ ears while you slept Gallagher, it should be me…_ ” Ian laughed – amazed that somehow, Mickey Milkovich managed to make even ASMR seem criminal – and saved the file to his phone before he closed his eyes, resting his head back into the pillow as he drifted off to sleep to what he was sure was the most incoherent, explicit, beautiful sound in the world.

Ian didn’t even think he’d heard ten minutes of it before he lost consciousness, but he made a mental note to listen to it one day – all of it – just to hear what he had to say to him when he was alone in the dark of night.

Ian awoke around nine the next morning, and there was a text from Mickey – sent just after 7:00am – saying he had landed and was on his way home.

 **Good.** he replied, and got up, showering well before anyone else besides Tami and the baby had even stirred.

When he got out and had dressed for the day, he added, **Think you could pick me up tomorrow?** and chewed absently on his lip; he _had_ planned on taking the El, but the thought of Mickey pulling up in his Audi – dressed in something nice, smelling like home and everything that set him on fire – made his stomach tighten; besides, maybe he could even meet Lip, or Debbie; not everyone, though, that would be a-fuckin’-lot…

When everyone had awoken, Ian took them all to Patsy’s for brunch, all eight of them cramming into two separate booths, with more food piled in front of them than Ian had seen in his entire lifetime; but he didn’t pay rent now – didn’t pay bills besides the one for his personal phone – and he had enough in savings to buy it all ten times over. Mickey messaged him back finally around noon, just after he had shoved his last piece of toast into his mouth.

 **Mickey: Sorry, had a nap. Of course I can fuckin’ pick you up. What time?** Ian leaned down, scooping up the napkin Franny had dropped before replying.

**7pm?**

**Mickey: You sure? I can come later…**

**Ok. 8pm.**

**Mickey: Lol sure thing, baby.** Ian loved when Mickey called him that, even if it had become a bit of a joke between them, it still sent blood into his dick.

They hung around the house all afternoon, everyone sitting together to watch random reruns of _Deadliest Catch_ for old time’s sake. Ian ate an entire bowl of popcorn on his own, slapping away Carl’s hand every time he tried to grab some, which eventually made him roll his eyes and get up to make his own. Ian smiled at that, his cheeks full, and it felt _almost_ perfect – all of it – except for the fact that Fiona wasn’t there. He rested the bowl on Liam’s head – which was leaning up against his knees as Liam sat on the floor in front of him – and Liam just giggled, occasionally reaching up to grab a piece or two – which annoyed the fuck out of Carl – and letting it stay there until there was nothing left but kernels.

This was all Ian ever wanted to do when he was home: just sit with his family; just listen; just talk; just argue; just be happy; just… _be_.

Lip leaned towards Ian at the dinner table – his hand resting on his stomach after they had all devoured about ten cans of fifty-cent Campbell’s tomato soup and three whole loaves of frozen garlic bread – and asked him whether he wanted to go to the Kash and Grab with him around seven; he needed cigarettes apparently, and more than that, he needed more Nicotine patches. Ian had to think about it for a minute – he hadn’t been there since he was a teenager, and wasn’t altogether sure he wanted to be reminded, considering the last time he had been inside he had been…normal.

“You can wait on the sidewalk, if you want,” Lip put in, clearly seeing the discomfort on Ian’s face, and Ian nodded absently.

“Yea, sure.”

The store looked the exact same as he remembered it: the windows were clean – plastered with notices and fliers – and although the overhang was a little more worn-down and weathered, it was still the same, too; but Ian wasn’t – he was different, in so many ways. It wasn’t something he usually thought much about – nobody ever does, really – but when he had moments like this – moments when he was reminded of his past, and just how fast the time goes – he was always taken aback. He wondered absently as he stared at the front door just how different he would be to Kash if Kash walked out that door then, and met him there on the street as equals. Would he recognize him? Would he smile, and thank Ian for being what he needed him to be at the time? Would he apologize for leaving? Would Ian even care…?

That door opened then and Lip strolled out instead, rolling up his sleeve and immediately slapping a patch onto his skin before he turned, heading back towards home as Ian followed.

“Wanna go past the Milkovich place?” Lip asked, and Ian’s stomach twisted at the sound of Mickey’s name – at the thought of seeing the place he had grown up – and even though he had seen it a thousand times before, it held something more now – something of much greater importance.

“Yea.” He grinned to himself as Lip lit a cigarette, taking a long drag before handing it to Ian, and Ian wondered how buzzed you could get off a smoke _and_ a patch…

“Kash’s son works there now,” Lip added suddenly, glancing up at the sky as if looking directly at Ian might push him too far over the precipice of his own memories. Ian considered this for a moment, and realized that yea, they’d be teenagers now.

_Fuck_ , he thought, and felt the sting of all those years.

“Makes me sad sometimes,” he admitted then, taking a long drag as the smoke curled upwards from between his lips.

“What does?”

“Sometimes I feel like…” he trailed off, not knowing exactly how to say it, but he tried anyways. “Like I lost so much time.” He glanced at his brother, who took the cigarette back from him then as he nodded absently at the ground, inhaling one more puff before tossing the filter into the gutter.

“It wasn’t your fault, Ian.”

“I know,” he confessed, but sometimes he didn’t feel like that was true; _that_ was the disease.

“No really,” Lip spat, stopping abruptly to grab onto the sleeve of Ian’s hoodie as he looked him dead in the eyes. “We’re all fucked up, man, and none of us are to blame.” Ian smiled a little – letting that truth sink deep into his bones beside his love for Mickey – and nodded absently, nudging gently at Lip’s shoulder before setting off again.

“Just Gallagher luck…”

“Exactly.”

They came around a corner a minute later, and Mickey’s home was suddenly there on the right; the red brick was turning to gold in the evening light, and the front fence was open, allowing South Side kids access to the front door should they want to see inside. Ian glanced up at it, imagining Mickey sitting there on those front steps as a kid, smoking cigarettes and drinking beer at eleven – maybe even ten – his short black hair sticking up haphazardly, face probably a little dirty from running around with his brothers and Mandy. Ian pulled out his phone, and took a picture of the little house – so quiet on its corner lot – sending it to Mickey before heading back towards South Wallace.

 **How come you didn’t come find me?** he typed, and it was unbelievably sappy, but not only was that the mood he was currently in, it was also a genuine question he would always wonder at; somewhere in the back of his mind, Ian thought that maybe if he had had Mickey all those years ago, it would have given him something to hold onto in the darkness – someone to run to when things became too overwhelming; someone to call when he was lost and needed to be found; someone to love him despite his illness and all his flaws…

**Mickey: I could ask you the same question.**

Ian strolled through the front door, and nearly punched someone in the face out of instinct as a massive chorus of _“SURPRISE!”_ came reverberating out from everyone inside the house, and he actually jumped; there were balloons up now – taped randomly to walls and the banister –and an old birthday banner they had had for at least a decade was strung up above the fireplace. Kev and V were back, a case of beer and a bottle of vodka under their arms, and Ian felt his face go red in embarrassment as everyone laughed at his reaction.

“Yea yea, okay,” he snorted, shrugging out of his hoodie before tossing it onto the back of the chair.

“Wait!” Debbie yelled, leaning out from the kitchen. “Sit on the couch!”

_Fuck_ , Ian thought, _here we go_ ; but he did as he was told. Debbie got just the _“Happy birthday…”_ out before everyone joined in, all of them singing to him there in the living room as if he were still six years old, and something about it made him really fucking happy. Debs set the cake down on the coffee table in front of him, and besides all the candles, the massive slab of cake had _Happy Birthday Sugar Baby_ written on it in blue icing, and Ian flipped them all the bird before blowing out the flames in a single go.

“Let’s fuckin’ party!” V screamed, turning on the boombox at once, and Ian was suddenly filled with that particular comfort he found inside the music, and he couldn’t help but think absently that maybe his love of being lost in sound had started here – all those years ago – when almost every night had been like this – dancing and smoking and drinking – before life happened, and they all had to grow the fuck up.

Ian was high as a kite; he had decided to take it easy on the booze – only having half a beer in over an hour – but it didn’t stop him from dancing with Liam in the living room as V sat on Kev’s lap in the chair, laughing quietly as they talked about the bar. Freddie was away with some lady called Aunt Oopy, so Lip had a relaxed arm draped around a semi-intoxicated Tami on one end of the couch as he smoked, while Debbie cradled Franny at the other. Carl was leaning against the doorjamb at the front, door opened as he smoked a joint and waited for Anne to arrive. Ian glanced around at them then – at his _family_ – and wished absently that the person _he_ loved was there, too.

 _Fuck it_ , he thought, _why isn’t he_? He pulled his phone from his pocket – completely forgetting in his haze the nervousness he had felt at the idea of Mickey meeting all his siblings at once – and hit the call button, sauntering past Carl, down the stairs, and out onto the sidewalk.

“Hey,” Mickey answered, and Ian inhaled a breath, the sound of his voice making him even more elated and full of heat in his stoned state than it normally did.

“Hey,” Ian replied, and snorted a little because he couldn’t help it.

“You drunk?”

“High as fuck.” He heard Mickey chuckle, take a sip of something. “Want to come over?”

“Can’t,” Mickey sighed, and Ian thought he sounded genuinely upset. Ian was quiet for a moment then, when suddenly he heard a man’s voice in the background.

“Who’s with you?” he asked, and was actually a little surprised at how jealous he got, his cheeks flushing as he listened.

“Calm down,” Mickey huffed. “It’s just Colin.” Ian thought about this for a second, remembering absently that Iggy and Colin were supposed to be on the road all day, and was sure Mickey was lying. The heat moved down into his chest, slowly spreading into his gut.

“I thought they were driving back today…” He knew he sounded annoyed, and he blamed the weed for his inability to control his emotions at the moment.

“They did,” Mickey stated simply. “It’s ten o’clock, Ian…” Ian thought about this for a second, trying to do the math in his really fuzzy head before coming to the conclusion it wasn’t worth it, because Mickey was obviously wiser than he was.

“Oh.” Was all he managed, on the edge of bursting into laughter through a dry mouth and squinty eyes; he could hear Mickey’s breathy cackle from the other end.

“Did you think I was cheating?” Ian could hear the smile in Mickey’s voice.

“No,” Ian spat, and it was quite obviously a lie.

“I could come by for like a half-hour, maybe,” Mickey admitted then, and Ian’s high got even more intense. “But like…” he trailed off, and Ian closed his eyes to keep from rocking back and forth.

“But what?”

“Is like, your _whole_ family gunna be there?”

“Yup,” Ian whispered, and the idea didn’t bother him like it should have.

“They won’t like, say anything to anybody? About us…?”

“Nope. Gallagher’s always lie.”

“Well that’s comforting…”

“Hurry up,” Ian spat then, bossily, and hung up the phone unceremoniously before sauntering back inside.

Ian laid off the weed after that, wanting to at least be semi-coherent when his boyfriend arrived. He didn’t tell anybody Mickey was coming – it would make it way more awkward for him and everybody else if they were all sitting there, anticipating the arrival of a Milkovich.

When that arrival finally came – about an hour after he had hung up – Ian felt his phone vibrate, and he leaned up a little, pulling it from his back pocket.

**Mickey: I’m here. Please come get me so I don’t have to fucking knock…**

 **Coming baby!** Ian attached a stupid winky emoji – which they never used – and got up, his heart suddenly hammering in his chest from excitement and really strong dope.

“The fuck you goin’ now?” Lip spat, and they all looked at him, eyes red and hazy with pot and booze; Ian just smiled stupidly, heading out the door without a word.

Mickey was leaning against his car, and the way his dark, fitted jeans hugged his massive thighs – the way his black crew-neck sweater hugged his wide upper body – made Ian’s knees fucking weak; he bounded down the stairs, not even bothering with formalities as he grabbed a fistful of Mickey’s collar, pushing him up against the passenger door, and his back made a loud _thud_ against the metal. Ian slid himself up against Mickey’s body, bending his head and taking Mickey’s mouth into his, feeling not only the heat and the softness, but all the hours spent without him, and all the words Lip had said that made him feel like they weren’t fucking crazy, they were just South Side. Mickey’s tongue was in his mouth then, flicking against his own – playing with it – and the sound of spit made Ian press his dick hard into Mickey’s belly before he sucked on his upper lip, bit at his lower one, and then pulled back abruptly without warning, leaving them both gasping before Ian got a full-on erection. Mickey let out a long, low breath, trying to settle his chest as he shifted the front of his jeans.

“You can’t fucking do that shit,” he said, but the smile on his face told Ian otherwise.

“Are they looking?” Ian asked then, and Mickey raised an eyebrow before grasping what he meant, and he glanced around him to the front windows.

“Uh, no?” Ian turned, and was relieved to see nobody was peering out the curtains.

“I didn’t tell them you were coming.” Mickey rubbed at his eyebrow, his temple, chewed the inside of his now-red lips. “Come on.” Ian reached out and grabbed his hand, leading him up the stairs; he could feel the resistance and hesitation in Mickey’s body as he followed, and he thought it was pretty fucking cute as he pushed open the door.

“Everyone,” he sighed, as if a weight had been lifted off of him. “This is Mickey.” Mickey stepped out from behind him then, and his lips pressed together in a hard line as he nodded in greeting.

“Hey,” he said quietly, and Ian was only a little surprised at how reserved it sounded.

“Yo, an _actual_ fucking Milkovich!” Carl spat, and untangled his hand from Anne’s as he stood, walking directly over to Mickey. “I hear you all carry custom Glocks. Can I see it?” Ian reached his hand out and smacked Carl on the side of the head, but – to his annoyance – Mickey reached into the back of his jeans and pulled the gun out.

“Sure.”

“Mickey!” he hissed, smacking him once as well – for good measure – but Mickey just shrugged, and handed the Glock to Carl.

“Sick.” Carl aimed it at the front window – away from everyone else – and stared down the sight, finger hovering just over the trigger.

“Settle down, John Wick,” Lip hissed, and stood, squeezing between the table and Tami’s legs. “Lip,” he introduced, and held out his hand, which Mickey took, shaking it once, twice. “The big brother.” Ian rolled his eyes at that, but loved that even though there was an actual fucking gangster with a gun in the room, Lip would still put on his brotherly pants.

“Tami,” Ian said then, pointing to her, and went around the room. “Debbie, Franny, Liam, Kev, Vernoica, Anne, and John Wick here is Carl.”

“Hey,” Mickey said again, scratching his temple before taking his gun back and shoving it into his belt.

“So did your dad actually name that club after Nazi’s or no?” Kev asked randomly, and Ian’s eyes widened; Kev had never had any sort of filter, much like the Milkoviches.

“Kev!” V slapped at his thigh, and Kev just shrugged as Debbie put her hand over her mouth to keep from bursting.

“Probably,” Mickey replied, and finally smiled a little, clearly entertained.

They were all just staring at him, and Ian could tell Mickey was super uncomfortable, which made a funny little warmth spread throughout his chest, because Mickey could fly to New York and meet with a cartel about illegal weapons, but he could barely make it through two minutes of standing in a room with his family…

“Let’s get you a beer,” Ian put in, giving everyone a death glare as he went towards the kitchen, and Mickey followed. Ian grabbed a bottle from the fridge and handed it to Mickey, who popped the cap, tossed it in the sink, and chugged half of it in a single go. Ian smiled to himself, knowing he probably needed the respite after _that_ fucking introduction…

“Nice family,” Mickey breathed, wiping at his mouth, and it was sarcastic.

“They’re the best.” Ian hopped up onto the counter; reaching out, he grabbed at Mickey’s waist and pulled him snuggly between his thighs. Mickey glanced back towards the living room – as if checking to see if anyone was coming – before giving in, and Ian wrapped his legs around him, staring dreamily at Mickey’s face as he pet his hands across his stubbled jaw, up the sides of his face, and tracing his fingers over his ears before cupping the back of his head and finally pulling Mickey’s mouth up to his, kissing him softly this time – slowly – their lips pressed tight together for only a couple seconds before Mickey’s mouth opened the smallest bit like it always did, and Ian slipped just the tip of his tongue inside, tasting the bitter remnants of that beer. Their breath was hot and warm in his face as they breathed harder, louder, and just when the weed was finally fading away and Ian’s dick started to harden, Mickey pulled away, letting that long, familiar hiss of air escape from between his lips.

“Fuck,” he whispered, pinching his eyes closed, and Ian smiled against his forehead as he placed a soft kiss there between his brows.

“I want to be inside you so bad,” he confessed, his mouth against Mickey’s skin as he closed his eyes, inhaling deeply through his nose so he could smell all that Mickey was. Mickey made a small noise at that – a small, desperate sort of _hmm_ – and fuck, Ian had to jump down from the counter before he lost it all together.

“You’re different,” Mickey said suddenly, and Ian glanced at him; he didn’t think it would be all that noticeable – the slight, sudden shift in his feelings – because it had been such a small yet significant change for himself; but maybe after his talk with Lip, his newfound ease with their situation was more noticeable than he had realized.

“How?”

“I dunno,” Mickey trailed off, leaning against the counter. “You seem…softer?” He said the last part as a question. “Sweeter, maybe…”

“You sayin’ I was never sweet?” Ian reached out with his right hand and grabbed at Mickey’s face again, petting his jaw with his thumb as he stared at his skin, his eyes, his lips…

“Like that!” Mickey declared suddenly, and reached up, pointing to Ian’s face. “You’re looking at me fuckin’ weird, and…touching me…differently.” 

“Because I love you,” Ian admitted, and although it had been true for a while, it _was_ different now; he had no questions about it – no reservations about how crazy they might be – he just accepted it for what it was, and what it was was intense, unyielding, and fucking beautiful.

As if realizing this somehow – like Mickey was suddenly privy to Ian’s entire conversation with Lip and the subtle change in his thinking – Mickey reached his own hand up, cupping Ian’s face as he slid his hand back and forth along his cheek, and he looked at Ian then – _really_ looked – his eyes scanning over his hairline, his forehead; over his eyes – probably his freckles and philtrum – his lips, his chin; and suddenly a look spread over Mickey’s face as if the sun were rising behind his eyes, and Ian felt its warmth within his chest.

“I love you, too” Mickey said simply, and it was a breath, but Ian could hear within it Mickey’s own shift, and that sudden breaking down of any reservations he himself had, and Ian knew they both meant it – they had _always_ meant it – but this time there was no questioning within their words, and it was the most glorious moment of Ian’s life.

Mickey only stayed for half-an-hour, and most of that time was spent in the kitchen with Ian; he _did_ however – much to Ian’s annoyance – have a quick, five-minute conversation with absolutely _everyone_ as he tried to make his way back to the front door in peace. Debbie cut him a massive chunk of cake and wrapped it up on a paper plate for him to take home, and Carl asked if he could drive the Audi before Liam declared he was too shitty a driver; beyond that, it hadn’t been as hectic as Ian thought it would, but then again, you needed way more than a half-hour with the Gallagher’s to grasp their level of fucked-up.

**Thanks for coming.** Ian messaged him when he finally crawled into bed around one-thirty, pulling out his headphones and opening Mickey’s voice note at once; he meant thanks for coming tonight – for meeting his family so suddenly – but he also maybe meant _thanks for coming and finding me like I had wanted you to all those years ago._

**Mickey: Go to bed, sleepy face.**

**Sleepy face?**

**Mickey: Too cute?**

**Nothing is too cute when it comes from your shit-talkin’ mouth.**

**Mickey: I hate being so soft with you.** Ian read that a couple times, and smiled to himself.

**No you don’t.**

**Mickey: …Just don’t tell anyone.**

**My lips are sealed, Milkovich.**

**Mickey: Good. Goodnight, Gallagher.**

**Goodnight, baby xo** Ian waited a minute, but nothing else came through; so he turned the volume up, and fell promptly asleep to the voice of the man he loved – loved with no reservation or doubt – and it was the best sleep he’d ever had.

**Mickey: XO**

His last day at home was spent much like the day before; they made pancakes for breakfast, grilled-cheeses for lunch, and ate a few more bowls of popcorn as they hung out in the living room and watched a movie together before entering into a long, drawn-out conversation about criminals, crime, murder, and basically anything that was entertaining and morbid enough to talk about on a Sunday afternoon.

As the hours past, Ian felt his chest beginning to tighten a little, as if with every passing minute a small part of himself was being removed and left there on the living room floor, to be kept safe by his family until he could come back again; but the fact that he didn’t know when that might be was eating him alive. Ian had tried to stave off the thought for the entire weekend, and had managed fairly well, that was until it was nearly seven-thirty, they had finished dinner, and Mickey text him.

**Mickey: I’m on my way.** Ian felt the sting behind his eyes as he glanced around the table then, taking in the smallest details of everyone’s faces and storing them away in his memory. If Mickey could get them out – _No,_ he thought, **_when_** _Mickey gets us out_ – Ian knew he’d get the chance to see them all one last time, because Mickey wouldn’t make him leave without giving him that at least, he was sure. So Ian held onto their faces in his mind, and hoped that day would come sooner, rather than later.

Ian stood out front, smoking a cigarette he didn’t really want, so he tossed the last half out into the street as he waited, backpack hiked up over his shoulder. Lip was sitting on the front steps, his hands intertwined on his knees.

“So you’ll be safe, yea?” he asked, and Ian glanced at him, nodding absently. “Good. And let us know when you can…about getting out and taking off and shit…”

“I will.” Ian glanced down the street then, looking for Mickey’s car, when he noticed a black sedan parked down the block behind a rusted Camry; the car was out of place for this part of town, and a cold feeling rushed suddenly into his gut – spread throughout his limbs – as he remembered that first night with Mickey, _and_ the night of their date. He had thought that black sedan that had cruised past him that second time had been just a coincidence, but now it was on his street – and yes, it was the same one, Ian was sure, because he remembered the first three letters of the plates: _YHX_. He glanced away, pretending not to have noticed, and pulled out his phone, dialing Mickey immediately.

“Hey, I’m about ten minutes out,” Mickey answered. “Blackhawks won, traffic’s a bitc…”

“Mickey,” Ian interrupted, and Lip glanced up at him when he heard the tone in his voice; Mickey must have heard it, too.

“What’s wrong?”

“That black sedan is down the street,” he admitted, and at his words, Lip glanced casually away towards the car.

“What?” Mickey asked, sounding genuinely confused.

“That sedan that you thought followed us when you picked me up at the Fairy Tale? I saw it again on our date and didn’t think anything of it but, now it’s parked down the street...” Mickey was quiet for a second, and Ian heard nothing on the other end but the sound of the engine revving as he gassed it.

“Stay there. I’m coming.”

~

Mickey sat on the plane, his mind racing through plans and details when the stewardess finally came back with his Scotch, just as the plane lurched backwards from the gate; he took the tumbler from her, and her finger grazed absently over his as he did so, trailing down the K and over his knuckles a little more deliberately than was necessary. Mickey glanced up at her, and she smiled at him knowingly before winking one of her dark eyes.

_Jesus_ , he thought, and grinned at her the best he could; it was annoying how many women hit on him when he was on full display like this, clearly having money as he sat in first class in his grey Tom Ford, the Rolex he only wore for important business meetings sitting snuggly on his right wrist.

“Can I get you anything else, Mr. Milkovich?” she asked, and he was sure that one, she made her voice a little higher on purpose, and two, she knew exactly who he was. Mickey felt his Ian phone vibrate then in his left pocket, and he grinned, which the woman obviously thought was a grin meant for her.

“No, thank you.” He pulled his phone out deliberately, pressing the home button so that Ian’s selfie was on full display, and her smile turned just the smallest bit downwards as she saw it. She turned, clomping back towards the cockpit.

**Ian: Have a safe flight. Text me when you land.** Mickey smiled at the screen, thought for a moment about calling him, but the plane was already taxiing for take-off, so he went with what he knew would make him smile.

**I will, baby.**

The flight was straight-forward and boring; there was usually enough time to squeeze a movie in, but this time Mickey just sat, looking out the window at the world below as he sipped his Macallan. Colin slept the entire way, so besides the occasional _yes_ or _no_ to the stewardesses, he never said a fucking word.

A couple times he thought absently of Ian, who had told him he had never been on a plane, and Mickey thought that he’d like to take him on one – one day, maybe. Mickey knew Ian would love New Orleans, where he himself had gone the year before to meet drug mules from Mexico. Ian would like the noise there, he thought, and all the music and sounds. Or maybe he’d take him to London, where Mickey had visited with his siblings for introductory meetings. It was hectic there, but classy, and South London reminded Mickey in a weird way of South Side Chicago; it was also somewhere Mickey had imagined falling in love, when he wasn’t busy meeting with the London faction of the IFL, testing out high-capacity automatic weapons.

Maybe one day – maybe one day soon – he could go somewhere with Ian, and for once in his life, just be somewhere because he wanted to be there, not because he had to.

Colin hailed a town car at the arrivals section of JFK once they were back on solid ground; they had only brought a single, small carry-on bag between them, which the driver shoved gently into the trunk before holding the back passenger door open and they climbed in, telling him to head for the Opera House in the Bronx before they finally pulled out, steering north-west through Brooklyn towards Manhattan.

“Better call Iggy,” Mickey said, lipping a cigarette as he rolled down the back window; there was a _No Smoking_ sign on the glass, but fuck that – it had been more than three hours, and Mickey was sure he was going to fucking die soon. The driver said nothing – probably because of how rich they looked – and Colin pulled out his cell, dialing their brother.

Mickey grabbed his Ian phone, remembering absently he had promised to message when he was safe on the ground. As they approached Brooklyn Bridge, Mickey tossed the rest of his smoke out the window and opened his camera, taking a picture of the bridge with Lower Manhattan in the background – tall glass skyscrapers piercing upwards into a blue sky; it wasn’t as good as being there with him, he thought, but it was something.

**Landed. Just heading to hotel.** he typed, and attached the picture before sending it. 

**Ian: I’m jealous.** There was a selfie attached to this message, and it was Ian, flipping him the bird as a cigarette hung out from between his parted lips; his hair was a little messy – a large chunk escaping over his forehead – but the grey-ness of the South Side around him made it stand out like sparks in the night sky, and Mickey wished he could run his hand through it, lick those parted lips...

**I’m jealous of that cigarette.**

**Ian: Just wait ‘til you get back…** Mickey felt heat rush through him at that.

 **Counting down the fuckin’ minutes.** He grinned to himself, and tucked the phone back into his jacket pocket as they hit FDR Drive and turned towards the Bronx.

Iggy met them in the lobby of the Opera House – a small hotel they had been to on business a few times before; it was elegant, but quaint enough to not draw too much suspicion or attention to their position.

“I’ll check us in,” Colin sniffed, jutting a thumb in the general direction of the parking garage a few blocks over – the parking garage that was also the main reason why they chose this hotel. “Go with Iggy and check the cargo, do a once-over before Maguire gets here.”

“Take this,” Mickey said, and handed Colin their bag.

“And this.” Iggy reached down, setting a small briefcase at their eldest brother’s feet; Mickey glanced at it, and knew inside was a Glock; he smirked at his brother before they both turned, leaving Colin behind as they headed back out into the sun.

“Got mine?” Mickey asked, once they were on the sidewalk and away from the doors, and Iggy smiled, looking around before reaching inside his jacket and pulling out Mickey’s gun. “Hey gorgeous,” Mickey said absently – causing Iggy to snort – and shoved it into his belt where it belonged; the cold, heavy feel of it against his sacrum gave him an instant sense of comfort, and he at once felt ready. “Everything in the room?”

“Yea.” Iggy stepped off the curb onto the road and Mickey followed, looking up and down the street before jogging across. “I have one AK in the room; one AR-15, one shotgun, one Uzi; but I went with two of the smaller weapons, and a single case of ammo.”

“Magazines?”

“Mhmm. A couple.”

“Good.”

Mickey remembered the streets that took them to the parking garage fairly well, and he turned right after three blocks, the massive cement garage looming up in front of him suddenly. A man was leaning against the front entrance – as if he had just stopped for a cigarette – but Mickey recognized him as one of their own.

“Mr. Milkovich,” he said absently, and nodded to both Iggy and Mickey separately.

“Trouble?” Iggy asked, and the man shook his head.

“None, sir.”

“Where are the heavyweights?” Mickey asked, and thumbed annoyingly at his temple; he knew Iggy had it under control, but he always had to know – just in case.

“Truck’s on the second level,” Iggy said, glancing absently up towards the cargo. “There’s one at the back exit; two in cars on the second floor; one in a car on the main level; and two on the roof.”

“Move another to the main floor,” Mickey put in, and turned, heading in past the parking attendant who was on the IFL payroll and pretended – as always – not to see them.

The truck was still fully loaded, it’s back end tilting towards the ground from the sheer weight of everything inside. Mickey opened a crate, and then another, absently checking at random to ensure everything was in place. He pulled out an AK – pulling back the bolt, checking the magazine; he pulled out a shotgun – checking the port, pulling the fore-end. When he was satisfied, he hopped down out of the back, eyeing his Rolex.

“We should probably get back.” It was almost eight, and Maguire was always on time. Iggy nodded, and they strolled down the ramps, back out into the darkening sky.

Colin had hung the suit bag up on the back of the door and unzipped it entirely; the longer guns were hanging from the top of the reinforced hanger on either side, and the rest were strapped horizontally down its spine; it was pretty impressive, and Mickey grinned a little at the sight, feeling a slight tickle of pleasure inside him.

There was a knock on the door then, and Mickey walked across the room, stepping back against the far wall and windows; Iggy did the same, coming up to stand beside him. Colin glanced at them, and they both took their Glocks out simultaneously, chambering a round before shoving them back into their belts and doing up the buttons of their jackets. Colin nodded, straightened his cuffs and collar, and opened the door.

Maguire was in his fifties, and still had the thick lilt of an Irish accent though he’d been in New York for over twenty years; he also had silver hair that matched his light-grey suit, and dark skin that appeared to Mickey to be way too smooth for a man in his position.

“Colin,” he said in greeting, and smiled, shaking his hand as he entered into the room, two men following close behind, one on either side. Mickey felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up – not because he felt like something was about to happen, but because his instinctual realization that there _was_ possible danger kicked into overdrive. A third man came through the door suddenly, pushing a trolley into the centre of the room – on which were two of their own suit bags, a little too thick if you were to really pay attention – and Mickey didn’t like being outnumbered. Colin shut the door, and the weapons in the suit bag came fully into view.

“Just a taste,” Colin said, and sniffed loudly, tilting his head towards the guns. “The cargo is down the street, ready to be moved.”

“All untraceable?” Maguire asked, and Colin nodded.

“No serial numbers, no traceable papers. All assembled, tested, and ready to fire.” Colin glanced at Iggy then, and Iggy went forward, reaching under the bed and pulling out a case of ammo and a single box of the magazines before laying them open on the bed.

“One hundred thousand rounds of different calibers,” Iggy put in, and stood back against the wall. “High-capacity magazines…”

“Tactical shotguns?”

“Ten.” Maguire nodded at that, and looked at one of the men beside him – the one who had brought in the trolley; he had strawberry blonde hair that was almost red, and Mickey chewed the inside of his lip to keep from thinking of Ian.

“Mind if we see the truck?” he asked then, and Colin nodded, glancing finally at Mickey.

“Mikhailo will take you.” Mickey didn’t flinch at the use of his full name; this was serious business, and saying _Mickey_ just didn’t seem that smart. Mickey stepped forward and headed straight for the door, the almost-redhead following close behind.

They crossed the street again, and Mickey didn’t make small talk as they walked; he just eyed his guest carefully, cautiously, until they were back at the truck. Mickey lifted the rear hatch and jumped in, putting out a hand for the Maguire grunt as he helped him up.

“Feel free to look,” Mickey said then, and slid out a cigarette, smoking it absently as the almost-redhead peeled open crates one by one, checking weapons at random; he’d hold them against his shoulder, weigh them in his hands, pull back bolts to see if they were greased, and Mickey thought absently that this must be what it’s like to watch a master painter work an empty canvas – like Mickey was witnessing fucking art.

When he had finished with the weapons, Almost-Redhead glanced absently at the cases of ammo, his eyes darting back and forth as if doing the math right there in his head – mentally calculating out the numbers – and Mickey was thoroughly impressed when less than a minute later, Almost-Redhead nodded absently to himself as if satisfied; he reached suddenly towards his inner pocket, and out of nothing more than instinct Mickey reached back for his Glock, pulling it out and aiming it so swiftly – so steadily – that he hadn’t even remembered to exhale the smoke in his lungs; he had told Ian once that he had never killed someone, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t if he had to.

“Don’t even fuckin’ try it,” Mickey spat, cigarette dangling aimlessly from his lips as he heard the chambering of rounds behind him, and he knew his own men were there at his back.

“I’m just getting my phone,” Almost-Redhead admitted, thick Irish accent seeping out from between his lips as he grinned, and he reached back into his pocket – slowly, slowly – until he retrieved the phone, dangling it between his thumb and forefinger as if it were something gross. “See?”

“Jesus,” Mickey hissed, and lowered his Glock, tossing the cigarette butt onto the ground. “You should fuckin’ say that next time.”

“You fuckin’ Americans.” Almost-Redhead laughed to himself – as if _fuckin’ Americans_ entertained him immensely – before hitting someone on speed-dial, and Mickey assumed it was Maguire. “Yea,” he said absently, turning away from him. “We’re all good, boss.” He nodded at something said to him from the other end before hanging up, and then he turned, eyeing Mickey with narrow lids as if studying him, which made Mickey weirdly uncomfortable. “We’re going to celebrate,” he said then, rather joyfully, and strolled casually past him, hopping down onto the ground where four members of the Milkovich security finally lowered their semi-automatics.

It was as simple as that; and now, over a million in cash was in their room, their own suit bag traded out for Maguire’s two, which were still folded neatly on the trolley, entirely filled with bills. 

“I know a great place,” Maguire said then, straightening his jacket as he turned; he always said those same words before taking them to the exact same cocktail bar every fucking time, and Mickey thought absently that maybe he just got some sort of thrill in saying that one stupid line.

They sat in the VIP area, drinking and talking until eleven; trading stories in whispered breaths when nobody was around to hear; eating shrimp and bread and oysters as they laughed. Mickey glanced absently at his watch, anxious to talk to Ian, if only for a minute or two.

“Got a bird waitin’ on ya?” Maguire asked him then, seeing him glance deliberately at his Rolex for probably the third time, and Mickey smiled, finishing off his glass of beer; he felt his cheeks go a little hot.

“Something like that.” Almost-Redhead – whose name they found out was actually Fergal Maguire – glanced at him from across the table, and the way his eyes met Mickey’s and held them there for just a second longer than what Mickey thought was normal sent a wave of knowing throughout his stomach then – a tightness forming in his chest – and he felt suddenly exposed, and maybe a bit turned on, if only because his reddish hair and the way he stared reminded him of Ian.

“I can walk you back, if you’d like,” Fergal offered then. “If you’d all feel safer...” Mickey noticed the way in which Colin and Iggy both eyed the Irishman, as if they were skeptical of this offer, but also maybe a little aware of his intentions. Mickey entertained the idea for only a second, a part of him wanting to have the satisfaction of somebody trying it on with him – someone a lot more _like_ him – but then Mickey remembered all at once that he didn’t want someone like him – he wanted someone better; and he _had_ someone better.

“I think I can manage,” Mickey said finally, and stood, doing up the button of his jacket. “Mr. Maguire,” he acknowledged, reaching out a hand, and the boss shook it.

“Until next time.” Mickey smiled, despite knowing that there probably wouldn’t be a next time if things worked out. Fergal got up then, and walked around the table towards Mickey, grasping his hand in a firm handshake, and Mickey was acutely aware of his skin, his closeness, and the way in which he touched him.

“In case you change your mind,” he said quietly, and Mickey felt him slip a business card into his inner pocket – right next to his Ian phone – before letting go of his hand and reclaiming his seat.

“Gentlemen,” Mickey spat, nodding at them before heading back out into the City That Never Sleeps, its bright lights and haze even more vivid than that of downtown Chicago.

Mickey had his own room beside Colin’s – where they had done their business. It was just past midnight by the time he had showered, undressed, and crawled into bed, nothing on but his boxers under the white duvet that reminded him of the one on his own bed at home. Fergal’s business card was on top of Ian’s phone on the bedside table, and Mickey picked it up, turning it over in his hand as he read the phone number; he was horny as Hell after such a long day, seeing as it had been full of adrenaline and tactics and kind words and smart business – the kind of shit he thrived on – and now he needed some sort of fucking release. He glanced once more at the business card – knowing that there was a real, soft, warm, fairly good-looking man attached to it that could be there in only a handful of minutes – before promptly throwing it into the garbage can and grabbing his phone.

**Just got back. Sorry I’m late…** Mickey sent it, hoping Ian was at least still awake, and he smiled when less than thirty seconds later he got a reply.

**Ian: Did it go well?**

**Yea.**

**Ian: Good. You should probably get some sleep, you have an early flight…** Mickey knew he was probably right, he had to be up in like four hours, but he didn’t really fucking care.

 **I wanna see you.** And it was the truest thing he knew; he meant in person, but when Ian’s reply came through, he felt heat spread throughout him as blood rushed into his pelvis.

**Ian: You want to FaceTime?**

**Depends, Gallagher. Are you alone?** Mickey combed is hand absently through his damp hair, slicking it back and making sure it was at least presentable before pushing the duvet down from under his armpits to around his waist, so just the top of his stomach and chest would be visible if Ian called.

**Yea, Milkovich. I am now…** Mickey took a deep breath at that, feeling himself harden just the smallest bit as he hit the call button; when Ian came suddenly into view on his screen, Mickey was ridiculously turned on to see that Ian was also sitting up shirtless in bed, and he wondered if his dick was also semi-hard just from the idea of each other.

“Hey,” Mickey said, rubbing at his eyebrow to try and calm himself.

“Hey.” Ian dragged his free hand absently over his own shoulder before it disappeared from view at the bottom of the screen, and it looked to Mickey like he was petting at himself – maybe at his stomach hair, maybe at his dick – and Mickey felt his skin ripple and his nipples harden.

“How’s home?” he asked, and watched as Ian’s hand came back into view again, and he rubbed it along his chest, his clavicle, his jaw, and Mickey knew _exactly_ what he was trying to do.

“Great,” Ian confessed, licking at his bottom lip, dragging his top teeth across it slowly, and Mickey let out a low breath.

“Fuck off, Ian,” he hissed, and closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose to try and keep from blowing right there on the sheets. 

“Touch yourself,” Ian said suddenly, and the whispering of it made Mickey’s cock drip precum under the duvet as his breath quivered. It wasn’t that the comment was entirely unexpected – Mickey had assumed as soon as Ian had asked if he wanted to FaceTime that this is what it would turn into – but there was just something different about the way in which he said it – the way in which his face went soft as he smiled at him, as if he were looking at him – _really_ looking – for the first time. Mickey thought it was almost as if he were more comfortable with him – with their situation – and the knowing of it made a similar feeling settle in his own subconscious.

Mickey watched as Ian reached out of screen in the lamplight – shifting a bit as if he were shoving down the waist of his boxers – before he glanced downwards, a loud hiss of air escaping his lips as his face contorted in pleasure, and Mickey knew he was touching his cock – was grabbing it, rubbing it, massaging it…

“Fuck, Ian,” Mickey whispered. “Are you jacking off?” Mickey had never done this before – not over the phone – and his stomach twisted as he watched. Ian looked back at him then, and the hunger in his eyes made Mickey’s dick twitch, so he leaned back a little, wiggling himself into a more comfortable position, and slid his hand down along his stomach – feeling his skin, scratching at his pubes – before grabbing hold of himself and squeezing, a sudden warmth spreading into his pelvis as Mickey felt his brows furrow and his mouth drop open.

“You’re so hot, baby,” Ian moaned, and Mickey thumbed at the droplets forming at the tip of his dick at that word, rubbing them down over his head in circular motions. Ian reached back up then, spitting into his palm in full view of Mickey before his hand disappeared again and Mickey imagined him sliding it over himself – from the tip of that pink head to his red pubic hair. A soft “ _fuuuuck”_ escaped Ian’s lips at his movements and Mickey’s balls drew upwards.

“Jesus Christ,” he whimpered, and started moving his hand more deliberately over his cock, stroking it with a gentle pressure as he watched Ian’s face tighten, his breath coming louder.

“Turn your camera around,” Ian panted suddenly, staring into Mickey’s eyes, and Mickey watched the muscles in Ian’s arm contract as he sped up his pace before his screen suddenly shifted and Ian’s cock was there in all its glory. Mickey’s mouth opened the smallest bit, a faint moan that he couldn’t help escaping his lips at the sight, and Mickey grabbed at his balls, massaging them between his fingers as he saw the sheen of spit on Ian’s dick, and he slid a finger down towards his asshole, pressing against it ever so slightly.

“You’re so wet,” Mickey hissed, and stared at Ian’s long freckled fingers as he pinched at the tip of his dick, rubbing that sensitive spot under his head with his thumb and forefingers, and Mickey couldn’t wait any longer; he reached back up, taking hold of his cock as he hit absently at his screen until it turned and his own erection was on full display – pink, plump, hard as a rock – and he grasped at his head, sliding that precum he knew Ian loved down to his base, making his black hair damp and sticky.

“Don’t fucking stop,” Ian panted, and Mickey’s hand moved faster in answering, a wet sound echoing throughout the room as Mickey’s dick began to leak strings. Ian made a little sound, as if he could hear it, too, and his hand gripped tighter, his knuckles going white.

“Yea, fuck that fist,” Mickey breathed, and Ian exhaled loudly before he stopped suddenly, holding his fist in one place as he began to thrust upwards into it. Mickey thought that might be the hottest fucking thing he’d ever seen, and he imagined it was his own asshole as he felt that bloom of warmth start somewhere inside of him, his balls pulling up against his body.

“Oh shit, Mickey.” Mickey could tell Ian was close, and he didn’t know if Ian was looking at the screen, but Mickey’s belly began twitching as his breath turned into short, quivering puffs, and he slid his fist to the tip of his dick then, pulling it in shorter bursts like he did when he was about to cum. “Fuck…are you gunna…cum Mickey?” Ian moaned, and barely had enough breath for the words; Mickey was already on the edge, but the sound of Ian – so quiet and fucking desperate – sent Mickey all the way over.

“Yea..gunna fuckin’…cum baby,” he grunted, that dam bursting inside him, and in a move so unlike him, he tilted his dick up towards the phone as ropes of his cum came shooting up his belly towards the camera as he shook apart, and by the sounds of it, Ian fucking lost it.

“Oh _fuck_ ,” he whined, - his voice so high that Mickey was sure Colin and Iggy probably heard it if they were back in their rooms – and Ian’s own strings poured out onto his belly as he shook violently, his thighs wobbling for a few seconds until they stopped entirely.

“Fuck, you’re so sexy,” Mickey sighed, and flipped his camera back around as he let his head fall back against the headboard, and his camera fall back against the duvet. They sat like that for a few minutes, just listening to the sound of each other’s breathing there in the dim glow of lamp-light as their cameras faced the ceiling. Mickey reached down and grabbed Fergal’s business card from out of the trash, using it to scrape the cum off his stomach, and Mickey smiled at the action, as if it was a final fuck you to all the people who could try, but would never compare.

“I kinda miss you,” Ian admitted then, and Mickey wrapped the card in a Kleenex before tossing it back, and he felt the same – maybe because of what they’d just done, or maybe because it was just the truth. Mickey picked up his phone then, wanting suddenly to just look at his boyfriend, and after a second of gazing at Ian’s ceiling, his face came back into view; he was flushed and red from exertion, and Mickey could see from the corner screen that his was as well, and they both had a sheen of sweat on their chests and foreheads.

“Can’t even go a whole day, huh?” Mickey teased, and fuck if he even cared.

“I talked about you today,” Ian confessed then, and he sat up against the wall.

“Oh yea?” Mickey felt a sudden wave of nervousness at that, so he reached over and grabbed a cigarette off the table, lighting it before sliding it between his lips. He definitely wasn’t allowed to smoke in his hotel room, but fuck it.

“Yea.”

“Everyone tell you to get the fuck out while you still can?” Mickey was trying to joke, but there may have been a hint of worry behind it.

“Basically,” Ian admitted, and Mickey felt his guts go cold and his brows furrow; but Ian just smiled at him. “Don’t worry, they meant get out of the _business_ , Mick, not out of things with…you.” Mickey let out a breath.

_Thank fuck_.

“Did you tell them we’re working on it?”

“Yea.” Ian looked away for a second, as if considering something, before saying, “I trust you, y’know?” and Mickey wasn’t sure, but he thought that those words coming from Ian Gallagher’s mouth meant an awful lot, considering there hadn’t been many people in his past worth trusting. Ian looked at him then, his eyes glancing over Mickey’s face as if it were something unbelievably precious, and Mickey was quiet for a moment, considering what he could give Ian in return.

“I love you,” he said simply, and it was the first time he had said it since that morning, and he hoped that Ian would noticed that _this_ time, he actually said it – not _I think_ I love you – but the real, honest thing. Ian just stared into his eyes – that soft look returning that Mickey was starting to recognize as their new normal – and he thought that maybe he and Ian were helping each other find some sort of shelter from the storm.

“I love you, too.”

They talked for only a few minutes more, and when they finally hung up, Mickey felt completely exhausted – both mentally and physically; it had been a long fucking day, and now he just wanted sleep. He plugged his phones in, and had just turned off the light when one of them vibrated; he glanced over, the screen of his Ian phone lighting up the darkness, and he pulled it up to his face, squinting against it in the shadows. It was a screenshot of an ASMR video, and Mickey smiled to himself before turning over onto his side so he was facing the bedside table, and there in the night – with his pillow tucked under his head and a softening cock between his legs – he opened his voice notes, and whispered to Ian all the things he needed to know – all the things he was too stubborn to say in the light of day.

Mickey was at home and in bed by 8:00am the following morning; his eyes looked like they had been punched they were so fucking puffy, and he had all but ensured not a single stewardess hit on him on his return flight, because he was grumpy as fuck, tired, he hadn’t even bothered to shower again or comb his hair, _and_ he had run out of smokes.

He sent Ian a text as soon as he had landed and was in his car, nearly falling asleep at the wheel about ten times before stopping for cigarettes and finally pulling into his garage. Once upstairs he peeled his clothes off, falling completely naked into bed, and Mickey was out like a fucking light by the time his head hit the pillow. Random dreams of Irish voices filled his head as he slept; images of he and Ian on the streets of New York; everything grey and dark; and he hadn’t moved a single muscle by the time his eyes fluttered open a few hours later, a last image of Ian with a gun to his head seared permanently into his mind.

_Fuck_ , he thought, rubbing his palms absently over his eyes before glancing at his phone to check the time; it was just before noon, and Ian had sent him two messages, asking if Mickey wouldn’t mind picking him up the following day. _Why the fuck would I mind_? he thought before replying, telling him he would. Mickey wished absently that he could see him sooner than 8pm the following day, but he knew today was technically Ian’s birthday at home, and as far as he could tell, the Gallagher’s always went all out for a party, so it was best he stayed away.

The traffic between Mickey’s apartment and Mandy’s was fucking horrendous, and he was still in a pissy mood when he arrived, checking to make sure she was still in one piece since their departure only the day before.

“How was it?” she asked, and Mickey shrugged as he sat at her kitchen table. Her apartment was smaller than the rest of the Milkovich family’s, but it was because Mandy wasn’t an active part of the business. Terry had never thought there was a place for women in crime, so she stayed in the shadows her whole life, working at the lounge most nights for nothing more than simple pleasure. Of course she was taken care of – her brothers saw to that – but Mandy had always been content with less, and Mickey thought he would have been as well, if he hadn’t felt the pressure of being a Milkovich – which meant showing off what you had and what you could take from others.

“One of the Maguire fucks tried to screw me,” he added absently, grinning into the coffee Mandy handed him. She raised an eyebrow.

“Tried?”

“I have a boyfriend,” Mickey admitted, and the thought made him warm – or maybe it was just the coffee.

“So you guys are actually official?” Mandy tucked her hair behind her ear, a small diamond stud sparkling on her lobe in the sunlight, and Mickey recognized it as one half of the birthday present he had gotten her the year before.

“Yea,” Mickey sighed. “I guess we are.”

“He seemed like a good guy,” Mandy admitted, and leaned a long arm on the tabletop; she looked at him curiously – eyebrows somewhat furrowed but serious – and Mickey knew she was conveying her worry for Ian and his involvement in this life – whether or not it was a great idea...

“I just…” Mickey trailed off, not really knowing how to put it. He glanced absently out her window then, and there was a small bird sitting out on the ledge, pecking at seeds that had obviously been left there for it by Mandy; Mickey smiled to himself at the image, and her softness reminded him of Ian. “He reminds me of you a bit,” he confessed then, and though he had never said it out loud before, he was happy he finally did.

“What?” She smiled a little, laughing awkwardly as she pulled her foot up onto the chair, wrapping her arms around her knee.

“He’s kind,” Mickey admitted, and glanced back at the bird, not wanting to look at his sister as he said things that sounded soft and corny. “He’s caring; but _fuck_ he can be tough!” Mickey’s eyes met hers again, and he smiled. “He cares about me Mands, somehow, and…he makes me think I’m worth something….I guess.” Mickey saw Mandy’s eyes fill just the smallest bit then, and she sniffed loudly in the sudden silence, glancing away as if trying not to let any of those tears fall.

“That’s fuckin’ sweet,” she spat, and started to laugh, just to keep herself from crying.

“I think you’d be good friends.” Mickey’s phone rang suddenly then – the volume startling them both – and he pulled it out of his pocket, seeing Colin’s name on the screen. He put it on speaker when he answered it, raising an eyebrow at Mandy.

“Hey!” Mandy said first, and there was a moment of quiet confusion before their brother’s voice came through.

“Shit Mands, I meant to call Mick!”

“You did,” Mickey spat.

“Oh fuck, hey Mick. You at Mandy’s?”

“Yea, just checking in.”

“He’s being sweet,” Mandy put in, her voice going higher in teasing, and Mickey gave her the finger.

“Don’t be so gay, Mick,” Iggy spat from somewhere in the background, and Mickey could tell they were all smiling.

“Fuck you.”

“Speaking of fucking,” Colin exhaled, and he was obviously smoking. “Did you fuck Fergal McFuckMeEyes Maguire?” Mickey snorted.

“Fuck no!”

“You sure?”

“He’s taken,” Mandy chuckled, and gave Mickey dreamy eyes as she leaned her head onto her knee.

“I hate every single one of you.” Mickey gave her the finger again before aiming it at the phone screen, just for good measure.

“Whatever,” Colin hissed, and promptly changed the subject. “We called Pops, gave him a rundown so you don’t have to go in if you don’t want.”

“Good.” Mickey didn’t want to go in. “Where are you guys anyways?”

“Bum-fuck Ohio,” Iggy snorted. “We should be back around nine, nine-thirty.”

“I’ll pop by and bring you your precious,” Colin said, and Mickey knew he meant his Glock.

“Just text me, I should be home.”

“Will do.”

“Miss you guys,” Mandy admitted, and it was genuine – it always was.

“Miss you Mands,” Colin said, before Iggy yelled the same thing, which made Mandy laugh.

“Ok ok, fuck off,” Mickey spat, before reaching out and ending the call. It always amazed him how normal they could all be when it was just the four of them together, and he wondered absently if maybe they could all get out…

Mickey was sitting at home on his couch, casually drinking a beer when he got a text from Ian with an attached photo; he opened it, assuming it was going to be another ridiculous selfie; he _hadn’t_ been expecting a photo of his old house on the South Side – red brick just as weathered, chain-link fence just as rusted – and Mickey felt his heart kick at the sight of it, but even more so at the words Ian had written:

**Ian: How come you didn’t come find me?** And Mickey knew within that question was years of being lost, just waiting – and Mickey knew that feeling well.

 **I could ask you the same question.** he typed back, and it was maybe really cheesy, but the question would always be one he thought about. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Mickey thought that maybe if he had met Ian all those years ago – when he was young and confused and scared – Ian would have been someone to hold onto in the darkness – someone to come out for; someone to worry about; someone to love – because Mickey had never been given that chance until now – and despite the person he’d been then, he thought that Ian would have loved him back anyways.

Colin showed up just after 9:30, setting Mickey’s Glock on the island as he flopped into one of the stools; he was obviously fucking tired, and Mickey didn’t blame him, not after a thirteen hour drive hauling over a million in wads.

“Iggy dropping off the money?” Mickey asked, taking his Glock and setting it on the coffee table in the living room.

“Yea, meeting with Pops now.”

“Good.”

They hung out for a bit, Mickey grabbing Colin a beer from the fridge as they sunk down onto the couch, flipping on the tail-end of a Bulls game on ESPN; Mickey didn’t really watch sports, but the white noise from the commentary, the fans, and the occasional squeaking of shoes on hardwood reminded him of Ian’s ASMR videos, and he was suddenly tired again. As if on cue, his Ian phone vibrated in the front pocket of his track pants, and the abrupt, pulsing vibrations let Mickey know it was a phone call.

“Hey,” Mickey answered, and Ian inhaled a fairly audible breath.

“Hey,” Ian replied, and snorted a little.

_Oh fuck, here we go,_ Mickey thought, and couldn’t help but smile to himself.

“You drunk?”

“High as fuck.” Mickey laughed at that, and took a sip of his beer. “Want to come over?” The thought of seeing Ian made his stomach tighten, and he really wanted to; but he glanced at his brother, his track-pants, and was way too comfy to move.

“Can’t,” Mickey sighed, and was genuinely a bit upset; he knew he _could_ go – if only for a bit – but fuck he was tired, and Colin still wanted to go over some ideas regarding their getting out. Colin swore suddenly when somebody was fouled, and Mickey kicked at him.

“Who’s with you?” Ian asked, and Mickey almost laughed at the jealousy in his voice.

“Calm down,” he snorted. “It’s just Colin.”

“I thought they were driving back today,” Ian said, and the annoyance in his voice was fucking adorable.

“They did. It’s ten o’clock, Ian.”

“Oh,” was all he managed to say, and Mickey laughed.

“Did you think I was cheating!?”

“No,” Ian spat, and it was so obviously a lie that Mickey at once wanted to see him, despite the time of night, the tiredness, or anything else; he wanted him to know that if he had a say in it, there would _never_ be anybody else besides him.

“I could come by for like a half-hour, maybe,” Mickey admitted, remembering absently that Ian was at home. “But like…” he trailed off, suddenly a bit nervous.

“But what?”

“Is like, your whole family gunna be there?”

“Yup,” Ian replied, and Mickey’s stomach tightened even further; he wasn’t good with people.

“They won’t like, say anything to anybody? About us…?”

“Nope. Gallagher’s always lie.”

“Well that’s comforting…”

“Hurry up,” Ian spat then, and hung up the phone rather unceremoniously. Mickey just stared at the screen for a second.

“Fuck.”

Meeting Ian’s family wasn’t as bad as Mickey thought it was going to be – but it wasn’t perfect, either; there had been so many of them, and everything had been so hectic and loud. Carl was funny, and reminded him a bit of Iggy; the big one – Kev, he thought – had no filter, and that also reminded him of Iggy, or any Milkovich, he supposed. Lip had been a bit reserved, probably because he was protective of Ian, which Mickey understood; and well, the sisters and the youngest brother he didn’t really get to talk to.

Mickey had spent most of the time at the Gallagher house in the kitchen, with this new version of Ian that did things to Mickey’s body that he had never known. This new Ian that looked at him differently, as if Mickey were the only reason he had for anything anymore. This new Ian that sent a new fire igniting throughout his entire being; whereas before it had just been all-consuming – engulfing his body in one single burst when Ian would look at him a little too long, or would kiss him deeply – now he could feel a spark in every nerve – an ember burning in every cell – as if Ian himself were moving throughout him bit by bit instead of all at once, and Mickey thought that maybe that’s what it felt like to fall in love – when passion and heat turned suddenly to romance and a fervent need for the other person.

He had thought about it on the way home as he gripped the wheel, putting the radio on to keep him from nodding off as he swerved through the streets; and he had thought about it as he crawled into bed, opening his phone one last time for the night as this new Ian sent him one final text.

 **Ian: Thanks for coming.** Mickey smiled to himself, and wondered absently if Ian simply meant thanks for coming tonight, or for coming to find him in this life like he had asked him to.

**Go to bed, sleepy face.**

**Ian: Sleepy face?**

**Too cute?** Mickey knew it was, but with Ian, he didn’t care.

**Ian: Nothing is too cute when it comes from your shit-talkin’ mouth.**

**I hate being so soft with you.** That was a lie.

**Ian: No you don’t.**

**…Just don’t tell anyone.**

**Ian: My lips are sealed, Milkovich.**

**Good. Goodnight, Gallagher.**

**Ian: Goodnight, baby xo** Mickey set his phone down, staring up at the ceiling as sleep started to fall over him, that heaviness falling into the space behind his eyes that let him know dreams weren’t too far off; and he welcomed it, let it wash over him as if it were a new beginning – a new beginning with his new Ian…

_Ian_ , he thought suddenly, and his eyes flew open at his name; he grabbed his phone from off the table and sent him one last message.

 **XO** and it wasn’t just a kiss and a hug, it was Mickey telling him that he thought of him; when he was alone, when Ian wasn’t there, when the taste of his tongue was fading from his own, when the sound of Ian breathing him in fizzled out, and when his eyes were heavy with the weight of everything he was and all that they faced, he _still_ thought of him.

Mickey was in the car and on his way the next evening; traffic was fuckin’ brutal again, thanks to the fact that there had been a Blackhawks game and they had won, which meant everyone went fucking mental. Mickey was cruising across the bridge over the South Branch of the Chicago River, heading towards South Side when the road finally started to open up a bit, cars becoming a bit more sporadic, and he went just a little bit faster.

His Ian phone vibrated in his pocket then, and because he didn’t have it hooked up to Bluetooth yet, he sat up, keeping one hand on the wheel as he fished it out and put it on speaker in his always-idle right hand.

“Hey I’m about ten minutes out,” Mickey answered. “Blackhawks won, traffic’s a bitc…”

“Mickey,” Ian interrupted, and Mickey’s hair stood on end at the tone in which Ian said his name.

“What’s wrong?”

“That black sedan is down the street,” Ian confessed, and Mickey drew a blank as to the significance of this.

“What?”

“That sedan that you thought followed us when you picked me up at the Fairy Tale? I saw it again on our date and didn’t think anything of it but, now it’s parked down the street...” Mickey’s heart began to beat faster within his chest, and that all-too-familiar surge of adrenaline put everything into a static focus as he gassed it, the engine revving loudly in the silence as he flew towards South Wallace.

“Stay there. I’m coming.” He hung up the phone and immediately dialed Colin.

“Yo?”

“I need you,” he spat, and didn’t need to say anything more.

“Where?”

“Meet me at the Kash and Grab in South Side.” Mickey took the exit so fast he heard his tires squeal. “Just Google it if…”

“I remember where it is,” Colin interrupted, and Mickey could tell he was running.

“And Colin?”

“Yea?”

“Bring Iggy.”

~

Ian stood in front of Lip, idly making small talk while trying not to look at the sedan parked down the block; it had been twenty-five minutes since Mickey had hung up the phone, and considering he had said he had only been ten minutes out, Ian knew something was about to happen.

Five minutes later his phone rang, and he answered it.

“Hey.”

“Is the car on the north or south end of the block?” Mickey asked, and his tone was deadly serious.

“South,” Ian confessed, and still didn’t look.

“How many blocks down?”

“Two.” The phone went dead again, and Ian glanced at it before shrugging absently and tucking it back into his pocket.

“Should we go inside?” Lip asked, and he sounded a little unsure.

“No.” Ian figured it would be best if they acted normal, and just waited. All at once Ian could hear the sound of an engine from somewhere a few streets back, and he recognized it with every fibre of his being. “Here we go,” he said absently, and stepped forward, coming up beside Lip, and they both backed up the smallest bit as Mickey’s car came ripping around the corner on the north end of the street; at its appearance, the sedan’s headlights suddenly came to life, and it pulled quickly out of its spot, attempting to do a U-turn, but another car appeared from the south turn-off – a silver Range Rover that reminded Ian of the ones that picked him up for his dates – and parked lengthwise across the street, blocking it from going anywhere. Ian watched as Mickey’s car screamed to a stop about a foot from the tail-end of the sedan, blocking it in, and Mickey came furiously out of the driver’s seat, his gun already out. Colin and Iggy both appeared then from the Range Rover, matching weapons held unwavering in their hands.

“Get the fuck out!” Mickey yelled, and even though they were almost two blocks away, Ian could hear him as if he were right there in his head.

The front door of the house opened then and _everyone_ came pouring out, all of them treading down the stairs as they stared at the spectacle down the street.

“Is that Mickey?” Debbie asked, and Ian just nodded, his anxiety reaching a new level. No doors on the sedan opened, and they all waited.

“Get the fuck out!” Iggy repeated, and without even hesitating fired two rounds into the metal of the back door. Ian flinched at the sound, and glanced worriedly at Mickey before the drivers-side door of the sedan finally opened – slowly – and a man Ian couldn’t really see stepped out. Colin went forward, gun pressed directly to the back of the man’s head as he patted him down, pulling what Ian saw was quite obviously a gun from a strap under his arm.

“Take him,” Colin spat, and in a flurry the man was loaded into the back seat of the Range Rover as Iggy hopped into the driver’s seat alone before backing it up and taking off in the same direction from which they’d come. Mickey turned, glancing down the street towards Ian before sliding quickly into the Audi, and Ian’s brows drew together as he came ripping backwards towards the house in reverse before stopping abruptly in front of them there on the front walk. Mickey got out of the car, and walked purposefully around to where they were standing; he glanced absently at all of them before looking directly at Ian, his eyes intense and blazing.

“Take my car home,” he hissed, pulling out a small ring with two keys on it from his back pocket before placing them into Ian’s hand; Ian recognized them as the keys to Mickey’s place. “Stay there until I come.” Ian nodded at him, his breath coming slowly and evenly as adrenaline coursed through him, and then – in a move so unlike Mickey Milkovich – Mickey pushed up onto his toes, kissing Ian hard, his lips opening for only a second there in front of fucking _everyone_ , as if giving Ian whatever strength he had to keep pushing him forward. When he pulled back, Mickey glanced absently at Lip, and nodded the smallest bit as if reassuring him he would take care of it – take care of Ian – before he turned, striding over to the black sedan Colin had pulled up, and sliding into the passenger seat before disappearing from sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Fun fact: If you didn't know, Maguire is the name of Mickey's Irish family in the original UK version of Shameless, where he also has a brother named Fergal. No, there is no weird inter-dimensional crossover! I just thought it would be a fun ode to the original.  
> -We have officially reached the eye of the storm, and I am SO excited for what's to come.  
> -Also, always remember that Carl was right - you can only count on family.


	8. Don't

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The past catches up with Mickey and Ian, and difficult decisions have to be made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -This is a shorter chapter, only covering the span of one night, just like the very first chapter - which yes, I did on purpose, and you will see why! I really wanted to make sure I did our boys justice, an take my time.  
> -A warning that there is graphic violence and language in this chapter as well! But besides that, I still hope you enjoy it, and as always, please feel free to follow me on Twitter @WhatsaMattavich for updates, excerpts, and sometimes fun little one-off stories!

Ian was gripping the wheel so tightly his knuckles were white; he wanted to think, but at the same time he really wanted _not_ to; so he put the radio on instead, letting the bass pound into his chest as he flew north towards downtown, eyeing the rearview every minute or two out of instinct, just to see if anyone was behind him. Adrenaline was coursing through him, making his palms slick against the wheel – he was sweating, even though he actually felt a little cold – and he really wanted to call Mickey; he wanted to ask him what the fuck was going on, where he was, and if he was okay; he wanted to ask him who that guy was…

_Probably one of Terry’s_ , Ian thought absently, remembering the way Terry had looked at him in the very parking garage he pulled into now, sliding into Mickey’s spot before killing the engine and heading straight for the stairwell. Mickey had reassured Terry here that night that there was nothing between them; then Colin had backed them up…

“…but why would Terry Milkovich trust his own fucking sons…?” he spat under his breath, reaching the top floor and unlocking Mickey’s door at once before closing it and relocking both bolts securely behind him. He glanced at the door, wondering absently if anyone came for Mickey if he’d be alright, but the door was steel, and unless you had the keys – or a blowtorch – you weren’t getting in.

Ian threw his backpack onto the floor, hanging his hoodie up on the hooks behind the door before sauntering directly into the living room and flopping down onto the couch, where he sat – fidgeting – and fucking waited.

~

Colin headed for the warehouse on the southern edge of the city, the two bullet holes in the back door of the sedan making an odd whistling noise as they drove. Mickey stared out the passenger window, watching the sky slowly darken, and was glad he wasn’t the one driving, because he really needed to fucking think.

“ _Has_ to be one of Terry’s…” Mickey observed after a moment, head resting in his right hand as he leaned against the window.

“Nah, I don’t recognize him.” Colin risked a quick glance in his direction, eyeing him thoughtfully before looking back at the road. Mickey raised a sarcastic eyebrow.

“You honestly think we know everyone on Terry Milkovich’s payroll?”

“What makes you think I don’t know everyone on Terry Milkovich’s payroll?” Colin asked, and the way the corner of his mouth pulled up made Mickey huff in amusement. “Cop, maybe?” Colin added, and _fuck_ Mickey hoped not.

“He’ll be really fuckin’ dirty if so...”

“Yea. Call Iggy, see if he had ID on him.” Mickey pulled out his phone, putting it on speaker as he held it out between them.

“We’re at the place,” Iggy answered, and Mickey loved that he always went straight to business. “He has no ID, no papers on him; he just has a phone and an accent. I think he’s Russian, maybe Ukrainian.” Mickey raised another _I-told-you-so_ eyebrow at Colin, who shook his head.

“Nothing in the car,” Colin declared – the glove-boxes had been the first places they had checked.

“Think he’s Terry’s?” Iggy asked from the other end, voice curious, and clearly the idea wasn’t lost on any of them.

“No,” Colin said again, bluntly, and Mickey wondered why the fuck he was so sure. “We’ll be there in a few.”

“We’ll be ready.” With that, Iggy hung up, and Mickey shoved the phone back into his pocket, his level of adrenaline rising once more as they neared the warehouse.

“This red-head of yours is seriously a pain in the ass,” Colin observed absently, and Mickey sniffed loudly, glancing away at the graffiti on the buildings that were becoming more industrial and run-down; he wasn’t altogether sure it _was_ Ian this guy had been tailing – maybe it had been himself; maybe he had known Mickey was going to be there on South Wallace to pick Ian up; maybe he had known Mickey was going to be at that restaurant; maybe he had known Mickey was going to be at the Fairy Tale that first night…

“Might be tailing _me_ , y’know…” Mickey added, rubbing a finger over his eyebrow, and he tried not to let the fact that Ian had been around every time this sedan had shown up change his mind.

“Might be.”

“I really fucking hope so,” Mickey admitted, and shit, it was true; if somebody was coming for anyone, it _better_ be him.

“Trust me,” Colin sighed, eyeing him. “I really fuckin’ hope so, too. For your sake...”

Mickey glanced back out the window, his stomach twisting a little as he heard those words – the way he had said _‘for your sake’_ – meaning that Colin – his own brother – hoped that whoever this guy was _was_ after him, because he knew that Mickey put Ian’s safety and well-being far above his own, and if anything were to happen to him...

Not for the first time, Mickey wondered absently who the fuck Colin had loved enough for him to understand.

The warehouse wasn’t so much a warehouse as it was an abandoned outbuilding off the _back_ of a warehouse, and the company that owned it _was_ on the Milkovich payroll – considering it was the foundry that cast their ammunition behind closed doors – so Mickey knew the cameras surrounding the building were turned off as they pulled into the dirt lot, and that no night security would be making any rounds any time soon.

Colin threw it in park and got hastily out, opening the back door of the building; it had a _No Trespassing_ sign welded to it, which made Mickey snort before following his brother inside. They headed through the massive room – weaving their way through what was basically just a maze of metal pipes, handles, knobs, and empty tanks – towards an abandoned office near the back. Mickey could see the glow of light coming from its mesh-wired glass long before Iggy came into view, and when he did, he was leaning against the doorframe, eyeing the man they had pulled from the sedan. Mickey saw he was now strapped to a chair, a rope gag in his mouth that – for now – he was just smiling around, and that smile made Mickey bite into his lip; made the heat in his chest rise up into his face…

“Cocky motherfucker,” Iggy declared as they came up beside him. The man had a large cut above his brow bone, and his left eye was already a bit swollen and red. Usually they would have a heavyweight with them – maybe two – to do most of the dirty work, but this was family business…

“Put up a fight?” Mickey asked, and grinned.

“Tried to.”

“Take a picture of him,” Mickey said absently. “Before you can’t recognize him anymore...”

Colin snorted in amusement at that, but agreed, taking his phone out from the front pocket of his pants before leaning forward, a ridiculous smile on his face. He pulled the gag down from around the man’s mouth, letting it settle around his neck before he snapped his picture, and the man eyed him for just a second – lids narrowing – before jerking forward suddenly and spitting directly into Colin’s face, making him flinch. Mickey pressed his lips tightly together and tried not to fucking laugh as Colin pressed his eyes closed for a second before straightening, sliding his phone calmly back into his pocket and reaching upwards, wiping at his face with his sleeve. Mickey eyed him, and crossed his arms over his chest, leaning on the doorframe next to Iggy as they waited.

Abruptly, Colin went forward, his hand wrapping so tightly around the man’s throat – his body leaning into him with so much force – that the chair actually tipped backwards, and Colin held him there by the neck, his eyes suddenly feral as the chair balanced on its two back legs, and Colin brought his face so close to the man’s that their noses were touching.

“Just fucking try it again,” Colin hissed, so quiet, his hand tightening so that the man’s face started to turn an irregular shade of purple. Colin held on until the man nodded the smallest bit – the best he could – and Colin eased his pressure, letting the chair tip forwards before letting go, and the man breathed.

“Name,” Iggy said, and it wasn’t really a question; the man glanced up, that fucking smirk returning, and the annoyance level in Mickey rose exponentially; this guy – this _fucking_ guy, he thought – had been at Ian’s house; had _seen_ Ian; maybe _knew_ Ian…

Mickey walked forward – completely done with everyone’s bullshit – and grabbed the man by the collar, slamming his fist into his face once, twice, and the sting in his knuckles and the sound of bones against skin made his heart beat faster.

“My brother asked you a question,” Mickey spat, grabbing the man’s head awkwardly as he bent forward to say it directly into his ear. The man side-eyed him, and to Mickey’s delight, his smile started to fade the smallest bit.

“Maxim,” he said finally, and leaned sideways, spitting blood onto the cement floor by Mickey’s shoes. “Maxim Grekov.”

“ _Please_ tell me people call you _Mad Max_ or something stupid like that,” Iggy snorted, his eyes rolling dramatically like the idea thrilled him. “Do you know what people call _me_?” he asked then, randomly, and his tone changed to indifference as he stepped forward, grabbing an old dusty towel off the top of a table in the corner and flinging it aside; underneath was a smattering of different things Iggy preferred: a knife, a hammer, pliers, wires, toothpicks, a hatchet, a blowtorch; the man eyed everything laid out before him, his forehead tightening.

“You’re Igor Milkovich,” he said then, and with his thick accent it came out like _Egg-or_ , which made Mickey grin.

“That’s my _name_ ,” Iggy huffed, grabbing the knife from off the table and twisting it around in his hands, the tip of the blade pressing into his forefinger as he twirled it. “But do you know what they _call_ me?”

Grekov was quiet for a moment, his eyes just following Iggy around the room as he paced.

“They call you _the Dove_ ,” he said finally, and Iggy smiled.

“Do you know why?”

“They say is because you bring peace.” Mickey snorted at that, and Colin outright laughed. Iggy raised his eyebrows and shot his brothers a look.

“He said, _they say is because you bring_ _peace_!” Iggy mocked, his voice going lower as he slapped on his best Russian accent. “Not quite,” he added, and without warning his hand shot out, plunging the knife into the man’s shoulder without even looking away from his brothers. It didn’t make a sound – going expertly in his skin between the bones like warm butter – and Grekov barely even flinched, it was _that_ unexpected; or maybe, Mickey thought, Iggy was just _that_ good.

“It’s a short form,” Colin admitted then, strolling around the man in a slow circle. “A nickname.”

“Short for what?” Grekov spat; he was staring awkwardly at the handle sticking out of him as his face contorted, and Mickey knew from experience that the pain was clearly beginning to seep in past the adrenaline.

“Chudovys’ko,” Mickey replied, in his best Ukrainian, and Grekov glanced up; he understood.

Chudovys’ko. _Monster_. 

There was blood on the floor – a lot of it. Mickey knelt in the corner, his knuckles bruised and bleeding; Colin stood in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest; and Iggy stood over Grekov, the knife in his hand now replaced with Maxim’s left middle finger, which he twirled absently around, sliding off the gold ring that sat at its severed base.

“Want this?” he asked, tossing it to Mickey, and Mickey caught it, thumbing the blood off the circular emblem; it was the old hammer, sickle, and star of the Soviet Union.

“Keep it with _him_ ,” he spat, and tossed it up onto Grekov’s lap, where it promptly rolled off onto the floor, tinkling as it bounced across the cement.

“Don’t think he’ll have anywhere to wear it in a few minutes,” Colin added, coming forward, stepping over the two other fingers that were already on the floor. “Who are you with?” he asked again, and Grekov glanced up, his head slowly rising as two swollen, purple eyes met Colin’s.

“Just me,” he replied, for the tenth time, and Mickey was starting to get really fucking annoyed again. Absently, he pulled his Ian phone from his pocket, glancing briefly at the selfie of him on their date as if trying to find his purpose; he punched in his code and felt the blood rush through him at once as he looked at Ian’s naked silhouette on his home screen, tracing his finger over it once before sliding the phone slowly back again.

“We’ll take every finger,” Mickey said then, standing; his tone was cold now, calm. “Then we’ll take your toes; and when you have no more fuckin’ piggies to send to market, we’ll take what’s left of your hands; your feet. Bit by bit I’ll take you apart, until all that’s left is your head, and if by the time you’re dead you still haven’t told us, I swear to God it won’t matter; because one day, I _will_ find out who sent you, and on that day, I will pull your severed fucking head from my freezer, Grekov, wrap it up in pretty paper, put it in a box and place it on their fucking doorstep, with a note from me attached.”

Mickey was right in front of him now, their eyes locked together in a gaze that Mickey knew was nothing more than a poker game, and Grekov was trying really hard to figure out if Mickey was bluffing.

He wasn’t.

“One more time,” Iggy put in then, tossing the finger to the ground as if it were trash before reaching for the table and pulling off the small, rusted hatchet from the back corner. “We’ll ask you _one_ more time.”

“Who are you with?” Colin strolled over and grabbed the blowtorch, igniting it with a _whoosh_ that shot a sudden flame out into the room. Grekov eyed it, and Mickey could see his face wavering, right along with his willpower; but still, he said nothing.

In answering, there was a sudden flash of metal as Iggy swung the hatchet, and two distinct thuds echoed throughout the room: one when the hatchet went through the bones of Grekov’s wrist, and a second when his entire right hand hit the floor. Mickey winced at the sound, watching as blood began to spurt from the severed end, and Grekov bit _hard_ into his lip, muffling a scream as his face contorted and he began to rock back and forth, just waiting for the pain he knew was coming.

Iggy tossed the hatchet to Colin, who caught it effortlessly and at once put the flame of the blowtorch to the end, heating the metal as the blood on the blade fizzled and burnt away in a cloud of smoke.

“Who?” Mickey asked again, and he wasn’t going to stop them. Grekov didn’t answer, but Mickey wasn’t sure if it was from sheer stubbornness, or the fact that Grekov probably couldn’t even hear them anymore over the sound of the blood in his head, rushing through his ears in crashing waves, just like Mickey’s had when he’d been shot.

“ _WHO!?_ ” Colin yelled, and it was so loud Mickey’s eyes flinched the smallest bit before Colin stepped forward, removing the hatchet from the flame and laying the glowing orange metal to the stump of Grekov’s wrist, and the resulting scream and smell was something Mickey was sure he was going to remember for the rest of his life.

“ _Okulov!_ ” Grekov yelled suddenly, his teeth gnashing together as his eyes squeezed shut in agony, his feet slamming onto the ground as he tried – and failed – to get away from the pain. “ _Vasily Okulov_!”

Mickey straightened suddenly, and every thought that had been racing through his mind for hours stopped dead in its tracks; his eyebrows furrowed as he heard the name, let it sink in – he _knew_ that name; knew _exactly_ who that was – and he glanced at Iggy, at Colin, their own faces pulling together in confusion as a coldness spread throughout his chest.

“Okulov?” Mickey repeated. “Why the fuck would Okulov be tailing me?”

“Not you,” Grekov spat, blood and spit pouring out of his mouth along with tears from his swollen eyes. “Curtis.”

Mickey’s ears began to ring when he heard Ian’s name, and the coldness in his chest hardened to ice; a part of him had already known this was somehow all about Ian – of _course_ it had – but he had been hoping – _hoping_ – it wasn’t, especially now that Vasily fucking Okulov’s name had been tossed into the mix.

At this confirmation of his worst fear, Mickey’s stomach turned to lead, sinking somewhere deep within him as his thoughts narrowed down to one single point in the darkness: Ian.

“Let’s go,” Mickey said at once, and Colin already had the keys out.

“Take care of this, Iggy?”

“I will.”

Mickey had taken the keys from Colin, needing just to drive now instead of think; so he steered through the streets, staring at the road and letting nothing fill him besides fear and the unknown. Vasily Okulov was a name they all knew and knew well, but _why_ he would be tailing Ian – of all people – was something Mickey _didn’t_ know, and _fuck_ , Mickey hated not knowing.

“Why him?” Colin asked, and Mickey bit his lip. “Why Ian?”

“I don’t fucking know, but…” he trailed off, braking at a red light downtown as they neared his apartment. “It has to have something to do with Sirko.”

“They _are_ partners…” Colin confirmed, nodding absently as he glanced out the window. “If it _is_ what we think it is Mickey, then…”

“I know,” Mickey interrupted, and didn’t want to have to say it out loud; didn’t want to think about it.

Colin’s phone rang then, and he answered, putting it on speaker for both of them to hear.

“And?”

“It was just him,” Iggy said then from the other end, and there was the clanking of metal in the background, the sounds of tidying up. “Nobody else besides Okulov knew what he was doing, who he was tailing...”

“But does Okulov _know_ about Ian?” Mickey asked, and he could hear the worry in his own voice, and didn’t really care if his brothers heard. “Does he know who Ian really is?” It wasn’t the knowing about Ian as Curtis that scared him; if Okulov only knew Ian as Curtis from the club – as a dancer, an escort – well that was one thing; but if he knew Ian as Ian Gallagher from South Wallace – a brother, a lover…

“No,” Iggy confirmed, and Mickey’s heart slowed, and he fucking _breathed_. “Mad Max here never got the chance to tell him, luckily for you.”

“You checked his phone?” Colin put in, glancing at Mickey with a sympathetic eye. “To confirm?”

“Yea. No calls, no messages beyond a week ago. Everything in the message history is about Curtis; never calls him Ian, and there’s no confirmation he knows who he is, or told anyone where he lived…”

“Good,” Mickey interrupted, but he knew that it _wasn’t_ good – not yet; it was still far, far from it.

~

At least a hundred planes had taken off and landed in the distance since Ian had gotten to the apartment nearly two hours before, he was sure of it; he watched another now, blinking its way off into the night as he stared out the side windows at the dark sky and the downtown glow of Chicago; he was sinking lower and lower into the cushions – his head resting awkwardly against the back –and is hands were working themselves into blisters in his lap, because he had already chewed both thumbnails down to the quick. Besides that, he hadn’t moved a single muscle, and hadn’t heard a single word from anybody.

Grabbing his phone again from the cushion beside him, he clicked it on, going into his messages as if expecting to see a text from Mickey that had magically come in without notifying him; but of course, there was nothing.

“Fuck,” he huffed under his breath, sitting up suddenly as his legs began to bounce; he was fidgeting in all the ways he possibly could, all the while his mind being consumed with _what-ifs_ that he was sure were going to send him all the way into manic if Mickey didn’t come home soon, or at least fucking call him. _Fuck it,_ he thought, hitting the _call_ button before putting it to his ear; it rang, and it rang, but nobody picked up. “ _Fuck!_ ” Ian slammed the phone down onto the table in front of him; he was about to get up – to pace along the windows or get a beer from the fridge and chug the whole thing in a single go – when suddenly he heard keys in the locks, and Ian stood at once, coming around the couch as the front door finally opened, and Mickey was there.

“What the fuck is goin’ on, Mick?” he asked, and just the sight of him eased his mind the smallest bit; he wanted to go to him – to touch him, to put his face so close to his that he would be reassured by nothing more than the smell of Mickey’s body alone – but Mickey’s face was serious, and he didn’t even look up as he sauntered in, leaving the door open for Colin, who appeared behind him and leaned up against the doorframe. The look on Mickey’s face was one Ian had never seen before, and Ian realized to his annoyance that despite everything, there were _still_ parts of Mickey Milkovich he didn’t know, and that fact – coupled with the fact that Mickey hadn’t even glanced in his direction – caused his heart to squeeze and stutter anxiously within his chest.

Mickey strode directly past him to the island, placing his palms on the marble as he leaned against it. Ian noticed that his knuckles were red and raw – like clearly he’d been punching someone – and there was blood seeping out of more than one of them. Ian thought absently that maybe not all the blood was Mickey’s…

“Mickey?” he whispered, and barely any sound came out; he didn’t move towards him, just stood there, letting fear and the unknown consume him.

“Do you know this man?” Colin asked suddenly, and Ian turned at the closeness of his voice; Colin pulled a phone from his pocket, tapping the screen absently before turning it towards Ian; there was a picture of a man strapped to a chair, his dirty blonde hair matted a bit with blood as a gag hung limp around his neck, and Ian could tell by the red marks on the sides of his mouth that it had been in place only seconds before the picture had been taken. Ian swallowed hard, and felt his breath hitch a little as he looked at the man; his hair was longer, and his face was red and bruising from where he’d clearly been punched – probably by Mickey – but yes, Ian knew him, and he felt his stomach twist into knots as the past he had been trying so hard to forget suddenly caught up with him.

“Yes,” he admitted, and felt a sudden wave of guilt crash through him as he realized that whatever was happening was entirely his fault. Mickey let out a long, low breath at this admission, and Ian glanced back towards him, watching as his eyes closed and he hung his head, as if Ian’s answer had confirmed his worst fears.

“I’m sorry, Mick,” Colin sighed then, eyeing his brother thoughtfully before glancing quickly at Ian, his brows furrowing just a bit before he turned, striding back out into the hallway and closing the door behind him. Ian’s mouth went dry as nausea began to work its way up his throat at those words; he was so confused – so fucking lost…

“What the fuck does _that_ mean?” he asked absently, and felt the burning of emotion behind his eyes, threatening to spill forward. Ian risked a step towards him in the silence, then another, coming up behind him and intertwining his own hands again, working them nervously; he _had_ to keep them busy, he thought, because all he wanted to do was touch Mickey, but he knew he couldn’t – not right now.

“Who is he to you?” Mickey asked finally, and the sudden sound of his voice – that voice that echoed inside of Ian when Mickey was gone – lit a tiny spark inside his chest, even though his tone was cold, and completely indifferent. “The man in the picture?”

“A driver,” Ian admitted simply. “Or security, I guess.”

Cold was beginning to seep into Ian’s bones; he was shaking a little, trembling, but thought maybe it was from the subsiding adrenaline and not the temperature in the room. Mickey must have seen this from the corner of his eye, as he turned then, striding back into his bedroom, returning with his black crew-neck sweater and handing it to Ian; Ian took it, and tried to smile at him, but Mickey didn’t meet his eyes, just left him there treading water as Ian shrugged it down over his head, hoping absently that maybe it wasn’t just a sweater, but a life-vest to keep him from fucking drowning. It hung a little loose on him – his frame not being as wide as Mickey’s –but somehow it still felt like Mickey was wrapped around him, keeping him safe.

“You know who he works for, then...” Mickey sighed, and it wasn’t a question; he turned away suddenly, walking past Ian into his living room, where he sunk down in a chair, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands.

Ian didn’t like any of this.

“Yes,” he confessed, and it was of course the truth. “Vasily Okulov.”

“Vasily Okulov,” Mickey repeated, confirmed, a small huff of air escaping his nose in something Ian knew was not even close to amusement.

“He’s a Russian gangster or something...” Ian strolled into the living room, sitting at the end of the couch that was nearest the chair – as close to Mickey as he could possibly get.

“He’s not a _gangster_ ,” Mickey sighed, sounding annoyed, but finally – _finally_ – he glanced upwards, those eyes meeting Ian’s there in the warm glow from the kitchen lights, and Ian noticed they were red around the edges, as if he had been crying – or was trying really fucking hard not to. Ian had never seen Mickey cry – hadn’t ever really seen him sad – and the thought of what it must take to break Mickey Milkovich made that nausea inside of him rear its ugly head again, and he wanted so badly to reach out and touch his face, to help drag him out of whatever darkness they now found themselves in because of him; but once more, he refrained; so he looked at him instead – his smooth skin, his pouted lips that were moving as he chewed them, and the soft little curl that hung down over his forehead…

“Then what is he?” he inquired, and didn’t really want to know the answer, because when he finally had to tell Mickey the truth, he thought it was probably going to hurt less if he didn’t.

“He’s a fucking Russian arms dealer.”

Ian had the sudden notion that by saying this, Mickey thought he would understand the significance at once, but he didn’t – to Ian, a gangster was a gangster was a boss was an arms dealer – and for the first time ever, Ian felt a little inadequate in Mickey’s eyes.

“Okay…” he sighed, and Mickey rolled those eyes in annoyance at Ian’s ignorance, which felt like a fucking knife twisting inside him.

“He’s _Shea Sirko’s_ arms dealer, Ian!” Mickey spat, and stood, his anger clearly growing as his face reddened and he turned towards him. “Why the _fuck_ does he even know who you are!?”

Ian stayed seated, glancing away towards the city through the balcony doors; he didn’t want to look at Mickey when he told him the details of his past – details he knew Mickey wasn’t going to like, and were only going to make things worse.

Ian had another sudden notion that after tonight, Mickey might not love him anymore…

“He was a client at the Fairy Tale,” he confessed, chewing at the corner of his lip, his nails. “I was like, a personal favourite of his, I guess…”

“ _Fuck!_ ” Mickey spat suddenly – so loud it made Ian jump – and grabbed a mug from off the coffee table in front of them, throwing it so hard against the wall that it shattered into a million fucking pieces as the last cold remnants of Mickey’s morning coffee dripped down the wall. Ian felt that burning of emotion turn to tears at the corners of his eyes as he saw the anger spread throughout the man he loved – anger he had never witnessed, not even when he had beaten a guy unconscious at his club; but this was worse – way worse – Ian thought, because _this_ anger was being caused by him, and Ian didn’t know exactly why, or how the fuck to stop it…

Worse than that, he hadn’t even told him everything…

“We fucked,” Ian admitted then, straightforwardly, and it barely came out as a whisper, but Mickey heard it – _had_ to hear it. “A few times…”

Ian risked a glance in his direction at that, just as Mickey turned, his eyes meeting Ian’s with a look that shattered whatever was left inside of him to pieces. All at once, Ian Gallagher knew what it looked like when Mickey Milkovich felt betrayed; and suddenly, Ian was back on that same shore where Mickey had first pulled him in, but now their hands were slowly slipping apart as the tide began to consume his feet – his legs – that black water trying its best to drag him back out into the abyss where he had been all those months before Mickey had found him.

“You _what_?” Mickey breathed, and sounded just as betrayed as he looked.

“I didn’t even know you then, Mickey!” Ian admitted, as if maybe that fact might somehow make a difference in his eyes – might give him _something_. Ian wasn’t really sure what the Hell was even going on – what the significance of Vasily Okulov tailing him was – but he didn’t really care in the moment; he only cared about the man who stood across from him, and making sure he knew that they could work through whatever it was, as long as they were together. _Just please_ , Ian thought, _don’t let the sea take me_ …

“How many’s a few?” Mickey asked, crossing his arms over his chest. Ian knew the answer wasn’t of any importance to whatever this situation was, but it was important to Mickey.

“Not sure.” Ian rubbed absently at the back of his neck. “He used to take me out, to functions and stuff…”

“So he _was_ a paying client, then?”

“Not really,” Ian admitted, and Mickey looked away. “I would go out with him as like, a favour, for Sirko…”

“ _And fuck him as a favour, too_!?” Mickey spat, causing Ian to get his back up.

“Oh you think I had a fucking _choice_ , Mickey!?” They were both quiet for a minute, Mickey staring away at the city lights in the darkness, and Ian staring at nothing but Mickey’s face, watching its subtle movements. “All I knew was that he was a business partner,” Ian continued, quieter now. “That he was Russian and important…”

“And dangerous,” Mickey interrupted, sounding completely resigned. “Whatever; you fucking Okulov isn’t really the issue now.” There was poison in this, but Ian took it the best he could as he finally reached his tipping point. 

“Then what _is_ the fucking issue!?” he barked – he had had enough of beating around this bush. Mickey’s eyes met his again then, the sudden distance within them making Ian’s stomach turn.

“The issue,” he sighed, and it came out cold, as if he were trying to distance himself from not only the situation, but Ian. “Is that you’re gunna have to go back.”

Ian felt nausea rising within him at that, and he crossed his arms over his chest, bending slightly over his knees as he tried to keep himself warm and pretend he didn’t know what Mickey meant.

“Go back where?”

“You know where, Ian.”

“I wanna hear you say it.” 

“To Sirko,” Mickey confirmed, and Ian closed his eyes, letting the prospect of going back to that place – of leaving the Milkoviches – settle into his soul. “He _is_ going to ask for you back,” Mickey added, as if it were already set in stone.

“But why?”

“Because of Vasily Okulov,” Mickey said simply, closing his eyes and turning away from him as he strolled back into the kitchen, sliding onto a stool at the island and placing his head into his hands.

“Tell me,” Ian sighed, and steeled himself. “Just tell me everything.”

“Okulov sells military-grade weapons to Sirko,” Mickey started – as if explaining things to someone who was completely incompetent – before tilting his head away, looking anywhere but at Ian, and Ian’s eyes filled at that; he rubbed at them with the sleeve of Mickey’s sweater, the subtle scent left on the fabric making his lips tremble the smallest bit. “If he’s back Stateside,” Mickey continued, “which I’m assuming he is if he’s had a tail on you, it’s not hard to figure out that Sirko’s going to want you back, to keep Vasily happy...”

Ian glanced absently around the room, trying not to cry as he considered this; Mickey had never given him a reason to doubt him before, and when it came to business, Mickey was also never wrong. Ian supposed he _could_ go back to Sirko if he _had_ to, but he knew it would mean seeing Mickey a Hell of a lot less, and it also meant he would no longer be under his employ – which actually meant: _protection_.

It also meant he’d have to see Vasily again, which meant…

“We can just say no, can’t we?” Ian asked, trying not to let the idea of fucking someone else besides Mickey enter his thoughts.

“Ian,” Mickey sighed, sounding so fucking tired as his eyes found him once again from the other side of the room. “You don’t fucking get it.” Mickey got up suddenly, striding purposefully towards Ian before kneeling down in front of him, his face so close that Ian wanted to lean forward at once and close the tiny gap, kiss him, pick him up if he had to and take him back to the bedroom.

“Get what?”

“We don’t have a choice.”

“We _do_ have a choice!” he spat, suddenly angry at the fact that it was like he no longer had a say in his own fucking life anymore – in his own relationship – and he was really starting to resent it. Ian got up, pacing along the windows for a minute before stopping and turning to face his boyfriend; Mickey was still kneeling in front of the couch, his back towards him as he thumbed his temple. “I can go for a bit if I have to, Mick,” Ian admitted, and knew he could survive it. “But then we get out, just like we’ve been planning on doing…”

Mickey’s head fell then, and he sniffed loudly before finally rising back up, turning towards Ian with a face full of resolve, and Ian noticed there was no more redness in his eyes.

“We can’t leave, Ian,” Mickey admitted finally. “Not anymore.” It was barely a whispered admission, but Ian heard every bit of it, and that immovable look that had been on Mickey’s face shifted slightly, and Ian finally recognized the sadness underneath it all as they finally reached the heart of the problem, and Ian’s insides turned to fucking stone.

“What?” he murmured, the tears that had been in the corner of his eyes finally falling down his cheeks onto the floor. “Why not?”

“Because it’s not just the two of us at risk, anymore,” Mickey confessed, and his tone was flat, even. “It’s my family, now.”

“But it’s always just been us...”

“It’s Mandy,” Mickey sighed, his eyes unwavering. “It’s Colin now, it’s Iggy…”

Ian felt heat ebb upwards into his face as annoyance began to move through him suddenly at Mickey’s words; _he_ had been willing to sacrifice his family’s safety – to leave them behind so they could get out, and get out together – but now, for some reason, Mickey was turning tail and fucking running, instead of figuring out a plan like they had been trying to do all along, and Ian didn’t understand why.

“So what, is your family just more important?” he hissed, and knew it wasn’t logical, because Mickey _had_ to have a reason, he knew it, but it just came out. Mickey’s brows furrowed and anger crossed over his face.

“ _The fuck you say?_ ”

“Well I was going to risk _my_ family’s safety to leave with _you_ ,” Ian admitted, wiping an errant tear from his jaw. “And now you can’t do the fuckin’ same…”

“ _Stop_!” Mickey yelled suddenly, so loud it echoed off the walls, and Ian shut up. Mickey came forward at once, striding across the room until he was directly in front of Ian, eyes blazing. “ _You don’t understand! Vasily Okulov is a Russian. Fucking. Arms dealer!_ ” he spat, the side of his right hand hitting the palm of his left between every word. “ _Not only that, he’s_ Shea Sirko’s _arms dealer! Shea Sirko, Ian! Our closest, most important partner in the entire continental fucking United Sates! If Shea Sirko wants you back, just to keep ties strong with Vasily Okulov and his never-ending supply of fucking weapons Ian, you better fucking believe he’s going to get you back, because Terry Milkovich will_ not _risk his business ties for one fucking escort! So no, Ian, we can’t fucking leave, because if we did, it wouldn’t just be Pops running around Chicago looking for us with Colin whispering lies in his ear to reassure him! It would be Shea fucking Sirko, and Vasily fucking Okulov, and what’s worse is, they wouldn’t know whether my father – my_ family _– knew or not – knew about us and our plan to go – and do you know what that would mean Ian? It would mean all out fucking war, with my family right in the fucking middle of it_!” Mickey turned then, his foot coming up and kicking the edge of the coffee table so hard that it flew back against the couch, everything on it flying off and crashing to the floor.

Ian let out the shaky breath he had been holding while Mickey screamed – his face so close that Ian could feel every syllable on his skin – and let the reality of their situation settle into him for a minute; then two; until he understood it completely, and let the guilt carry him away.

“Mickey,” he said, and finally reached out for him; because right now, it _was_ just the two of them, and Ian needed him; he needed him to know that he was sorry for taking so long to find him; he needed him to know that he was sorry for causing this – that he was sorry he was taking away their future on the outside together; that he knew all of this was his fault, and that he hated himself more in this single moment than Mickey ever possibly could.

Mickey turned a little as Ian came up beside him, intertwining their fingers together there at his side.

“And what’s worse,” Mickey whispered then, his breath hot and calm now on Ian’s shoulder, “is that they could maybe get it out of them...”

“Get _what_ out of _who_?”

“I know what Sirko and Okulov can do, Ian,” Mickey said, “and if they did those things to Colin – to Iggy – they may be able to find out about you, too – your family – despite my brothers’ loyalty.”

Ian gazed at the top of Mickey’s head as he stood there beside him and listened – the way his black hair shone in the light – and he leaned forward a little, pressing his nose into it and breathing him in, smiling just the smallest bit against the errant strands; because Mickey’s only purpose for anything anymore seemed to be him – his happiness; his safety – and now that Ian could see Mickey’s reasoning for everything, he loved him more than he ever had.

Ian would go to Sirko, and he would stay in this life; he would go, and he would stay, for Mickey.

For his family.

“Is my family going to be okay if we stay?” he asked then, letting his choice settle into his bones, but the thought of Vasily Okulov knowing where he lived made him sick.

“Nobody besides Grekov – the driver – knew where you lived, or who you were,” Mickey put in, his thumb tracing absently over Ian’s knuckles. “He didn’t tell anyone else; he didn’t have the chance.”

Ian nodded absently, letting his forehead rest against Mickey’s as he moved in front of him, feeling the cool sweat against their hot skin.

“How do you know?”

“Iggy can be pretty persuasive,” Mickey admitted, swallowing hard at Ian’s closeness, and Ian didn’t want to think about what that meant, or what Iggy’s persuasiveness entailed.

“Can we be sure he won’t tell anyone later?” Ian asked, closing his eyes as he breathed against Mickey’s skin, trying to touch him in all the ways he had wanted to for the past ten minutes.

“He won’t.”

“But how can we be sure?”

“Because he’s at the bottom of Lake fucking Michigan,” Mickey spat then, his head coming up, and Ian stared down at him – staring into his eyes – nodding absently as he let that truth sink in. He didn’t ask if Mickey had been the one to do it – he didn’t think it mattered much; his family was safe – _he_ was safe – and that was because of the man in front of him.

“So how will this work, then?” Ian asked, needing to change the subject, and risked a grin – a kiss between Mickey’s eyebrows – a calm beginning to ebb through him as the confusion dissipated and was replaced with the wondering of what their future now looked like. “You can come by after my shifts or something…” Ian trailed off, glancing out at the skyline, letting his cheek rub against the top of Mickey’s head as his eyes closed. “I guess I’ll have to move back to my old place...” The idea of not being so close to Mickey squeezed at his heart, but he could deal with it, he thought, as long as they were together…

“Ian,” Mickey whispered, and there was a hint of pain in his voice.

“I can make excuses with Okulov,” Ian put in then, trailing his lips back across Mickey’s forehead. “I won’t fuck anybody else…”

Mickey’s eyes met his at that, holding them for a second before scanning over Ian’s face, taking in every little detail like he always did. Ian reached up, wanting to run his thumb along Mickey’s bottom lip and feel its softness – to taste it finally – but Mickey pulled back suddenly, stepping out of Ian’s grasp and disentangling their hands as his eyes darkened.

“We can’t, Ian,” he sighed, sniffing loudly in the silence, and nothing but the echo of a police siren broke through into their little world.

Mickey glanced away then, and Ian felt his heart sink like lead in dark water as realization began to engulf him, his brows furrowing together; he took an involuntary step back, that nausea that had been fading returning suddenly, rising almost to the point of no return, and Ian swallow hard, as if not only keeping the sickness at bay, but the sudden reality placed before him.

“Is…” he started, but didn’t want to say it. Mickey eyed him, his face so soft in the golden light that Ian already knew the answer, but asked it anyways. “ _Is this you breaking up with me_?”

Mickey stared at him, and a second passed; then five; and he finally just nodded, without saying a word.

Ian took another step back, making the space between them even bigger as his arms folded over his chest, like the action could hold his ribs together and keep his heart from falling out right there on the floor – his heart that was starting to crack and fill with water as the abyss rose up over his legs to his chest. He thought back to only the night before, when they had stood in his kitchen and loved each other for the first time without a single hint of doubt, and now here they were, twenty-four hours later. The memory caused Ian’s eyes to burn again, filling to almost the tipping point as he wrapped his arms further around himself; but he realized absently that beyond his pain, beyond his anxiety, there was also anger – was a growing frustration – because at the end of the day, he was too fucking South Side, and there was no way in Hell he was going out without a fight.

“ _Can we at least talk about this_!?” he hissed, and he felt his eyes blaze with the anger and the tears.

“No.”

“Mickey, there’s always a fuckin’ way! We can figure…”

“Dating my own escort is bad enough,” Mickey interrupted, and tried to laugh, but failed. “Dating someone else’s…”

“I’m _not_ someone else’s!” Ian yelled, making Mickey flinch. “I’m yours.”

Those last words were quiet, breathy, and at the saying of them, Mickey’s eyes met Ian’s, his brows pulling together as if his own heart was breaking too, and Ian _was_ crying now, all of his emotions mingling into one overwhelming feeling of desperation; but if Ian had any doubt that Mickey wasn’t as South Side as he was, it was quickly extinguished.

“You think I don’t know that!?” Mickey hissed, voice quivering. “You think I _want_ this!? To send you back to be taken out and _fucked_ by people I don’t have the power to stop!? You think I’m looking _forward_ to not being able to protect you!? To not have a say in what _happens_ to you, Ian!?” Mickey stopped, taking a deep breath before turning suddenly and punching the TV screen so hard that it cracked and fell backwards onto the floor, and blood started to drip steadily from Mickey’s knuckles. “I know you’re mine, for fuck’s sake!” he spat, but his strength slowly started to dwindle as he finished. “I’ve always known! Just like I’m yours, Ian, because you fucking saved me…you _saved_ me. But none of that matters; this life that we’ve chosen doesn’t give a fuck about us, Ian, and it never will…”

“Then just let me stay,” Ian pleaded; voice so quiet he wasn’t even sure Mickey heard him.

Mickey’s face was red now, and he put his palms up to his forehead, rubbing them back and forth along his temples, as if he couldn’t believe this was actually fucking happening. He stood like that for a minute, just gazing out at Chicago as Ian gazed at him.

“Colin will take you home,” he said finally, and Ian knew his mind was clearly made up. Mickey strolled over and grabbed his fob from off the counter before heading for the front door, and Ian couldn’t fucking believe that was it. “When I hear from Sirko, I’ll let you know...”

“Don’t,” Ian said then, voice catching in his throat as the realization that Mickey was actually about to leave him settled deep into his soul, and the nausea was at his doorstep. Mickey glanced back at him, his blue eyes beginning to fill as he chewed at the corner of his lip.

“I don’t have a choice,” he sighed, shaking his head, and his voice broke just the smallest bit as he said it. “When he asks for you back Ian, I’ll _have_ to give you to him; and…” he trailed off, sniffing loudly in the silence between them, “and I’ll have to let you go.”

“Don’t do this,” Ian breathed, his voice getting quieter as he pleaded. “Not after I’ve just figured everything out...”

Ian stood there in the dim light of night, staring at Mickey for what seemed like an eternity; he understood everything Mickey had said, and he knew why Mickey thought he had to do it; but what Ian knew was that he _needed_ Mickey now, and he knew that Mickey needed him back, just as badly; they were holding each other up, but if one of them were to step away – were to disappear from sight – Ian knew they would both fall back into old habits, bad business, and darkness, once again finding themselves just simply surviving in a life they hated, instead of thriving in a life they loved, because they had each other.

“I have to go,” Mickey said after a moment, breaking Ian from his train of thought, and he turned, grabbing the front handle as everything that was left inside of Ian came surging forward in one final effort.

“Mickey!” he yelled, the tears blurring his eyes so badly now that everything was just rounded shapes and colours, and it was so fucking frantic that Mickey stopped at once. Ian went forward, grabbing onto his arm and turning him around, pushing him up against the door and looking down at him, but Mickey’s eyes didn’t leave the floor. “ _Baby_ ,” he said instead this time, a whisper, and Mickey closed his eyes at the sound. Ian leaned forward, pressing his lips against Mickey’s as if it were the first time they’d ever done this – so soft, yet so wanting and fragile. At first there was nothing, it was just Ian pressing into him with all that he had as Mickey steeled himself, trying not to give in. “ _Please_ ,” he whimpered then – right there against his lips – and he didn’t care how desperate he sounded. His own eyes squeezed closed, causing even more tears to fall down onto both their cheeks, and it was all so hopeless that Mickey’s mouth finally opened, giving up all fight, and Ian was inside at once, pushing his body up against him as he grabbed at his face, his hair – pushing his hands through so he could finger the black strands that smelled like home, feel the shaved sides scratch against his palms, caress his cheeks with his thumbs and feel their softness, taste the heartbreak on his tongue and hopelessness on his breath… 

“Ian,” Mickey moaned, and Ian opened his eyes; there were tears falling down Mickey’s face now, too, and Ian could tell he wanted to hold firm to his decision to leave, but Ian was at least going to try.

“Come here,” he breathed, and pressed his pelvis hard into Mickey before finding his mouth again, their tongues so wet and wanting that despite the pain inside him, he felt his blood rushing downwards, his dick hardening as it rubbed against Mickey’s stomach. Mickey whined a little – barely a sound – but it made Ian’s flesh ripple under Mickey’s sweater – made his nipples harden – and Ian slid his hands down Mickey’s neck, his chest, right to his belt, and could feel he was just as hard – just as desperate. Ian undid the buckle swiftly, his forehead pressed against Mickey’s as he stared at Mickey’s closed eyelids. “Look at me,” he whispered, demanded, and Mickey’s eyes fluttered open; they were so fucking blue from the tears within them that Ian’s dick twitched, just at how beautiful he was, even in pain.

Ian was once again keeping that promise to himself: to have Mickey in all the ways he possibly could; now it was in fucking desperation – in struggle – and Ian thought absently about how they always seemed to be breaking things; they had broken that mirror the first time they fucked, when Ian had tossed Mickey’s belt into it; they had broken the drywall when his fist went through it in pleasure; they had broken a guy’s arm in anger; they had broken clocks in tiredness; they had broken mugs and TV screens in confession; and now, now they were breaking each other’s fucking hearts.

Mickey’s pants hit the floor, but Ian didn’t make a move to take off his own; he could feel the tightness in his jeans – could feel the pressure – but he didn’t fucking care; he didn’t want anything for himself anymore, he just wanted to give everything he had – everything he was – to Mickey; because he _would_ give it all up for him, and he needed him to know that.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Mickey hissed, as Ian wrapped his fingers around him, and Ian could feel the bloom of wetness at his slit, so he thumbed it, his forehead never leaving Mickey’s – his eyes never leaving Mickey’s – as he massaged it down along his dick to the base, where his black hair tickled Ian’s fingers before he dragged it back again.

Ian lifted his other hand, sliding it around to the back of Mickey’s head and holding it firm against his own, making sure they never broke apart.

Ian didn’t say anything; he just let the tears ebb from his eyes as they looked at each other, his body pressed so close to Mickey’s that all they were was heat and moisture as Ian’s pressure slowly increased. Mickey’s breath began coming in short, little puffs against Ian’s lips as he dragged him closer and closer to the edge, feeling every inch of him as if it _was_ actually going to be the last time he could ever feel him, touch him, give him pleasure…

Ian was patient, and waited until Mickey’s face contorted the smallest bit, and then he slid his hand to the head of his dick, jerking it back and forth quickly at his tip like Mickey always did when he was about to cum, because this _was_ Mickey, and Ian _knew_ him – knew what he liked, knew what he needed, but above all, knew what he wanted from this life, and Ian was going to show him that he could give it to him, no matter what, and that they could stay like this forever, just the two of them, nothing but heat and moisture.

“Jesus Ian,” Mickey whimpered suddenly, a tear falling from his eye, and Ian pressed his lips to Mickey’s at once, fusing them together like metal as he felt Mickey whine into his mouth as he shook apart, his cum shooting out into Ian’s tightened fist, and Ian smiled just a little, feeling everything he knew they couldn’t stand to lose.

They stayed like that for a moment, their mouths together, Ian capturing every breath and sound Mickey made.

“I wanna be with you,” Ian whispered finally, pulling back just enough that their lips were still touching, and fuck he needed him more than anything. “I wanna be where you are, Mickey.”

Ian was quiet now, and he just listened to Mickey’s breath as it slowed, breathing it in until Mickey finally inhaled deeply – as if returning to earth – and Ian could imagine their breath mingling together before drifting down into each other’s lungs – throughout their blood – making their hearts beat for each other, and Ian was glad that no matter what, a part of him would be inside of Mickey always, and a part of Mickey would also be inside of him; because Ian meant it – he meant every fucking word; he wanted to be where Mickey was; and he didn’t want to go back to the darkness that had been all around him _before_ Mickey; and he didn’t want to imagine a life without Mickey in it – not now – not after they’d come so far.

“You don’t get to be,” Mickey said suddenly, and set his hands on Ian’s chest, grabbing a handful of his own sweater before pulling him slightly closer, placing one more kiss onto Ian’s jaw before pushing him away and pulling his pants up over his softening cock. He turned for the door, and Ian could do nothing but watch the magnificent glow of his lighthouse start to fade, dwindling down to nothing more than a spark in the darkness before it blinked out of existence and disappeared completely, and he sunk down beneath the waves.

~

Mickey could still feel Ian’s tears on his face; he could still feel Ian’s hands on him – the sensation of one palm so tight against the back of his head while the other tried to fuse them together – to keep him from leaving. Mickey was still sensitive, and his pants were uncomfortable, but he didn’t care – he didn’t think he cared much about anything anymore, besides imagining all the things he could do now to change everything, and all the things he could have done or said differently. _Fuck_ there had been so much he had wanted to say – to tell him; he had wanted to tell him he was sorry this was happening; that he was sorry Ian had been sucked into this life; that he was sorry he had fallen in love with a Milkovich of all fucking people; and that he was sorry he hadn’t come and found him all those years ago like he had wanted him to…

But it was easier if Ian didn’t know any of that – easier for Mickey to say goodbye if he just gave him the facts he knew, and didn’t fight against it, even if he had wanted to with every atom of his being, fuck, especially when Ian had _touched_ him. Mickey had wanted to touch him back – to reach out and feel Ian in all the ways that thrilled him; he had wanted to accept their fucking fate and let the goddamn chips fall where they may, and fuck everybody besides himself and the man he was in love with; but despite what people thought of him, Mickey wasn’t that selfish. It hadn’t been until the very end though – after he had fallen apart right there in Ian’s hand – when he had made his final decision; as he came, he had been absolutely certain he was going to stay, because that singular sensation of release was one he knew only Ian would ever be able to give him, and it was the greatest pleasure he had ever known, or ever _would_ know; but as soon as it had passed – when his muscles had loosened and everything had come into a startling clear focus – he realized that it was his own happiness that he would be giving it all up for, and that was something Mickey could never justify.

No; he _wasn’t_ that selfish.

Mickey wiped the tears falling freely from his eyes as he went down the stairs; a part of him had fully expected Ian to come down after him, but he had seen that last look in Ian’s eyes – that last look he had given him when Mickey had told him that he didn’t get to be with him – and he knew that Ian was probably too broken to do much of anything right now, and it was entirely his fault.

Mickey pulled out his phone immediately, trying not to look at Ian’s pictures as he opened it, going directly into his contacts and hitting Lip’s number, which he had saved one night while Ian was fast asleep beside him, just in case.

Mickey may not be able to be with him – not right now – but like fuck he was going to leave him alone to drown.

“Hello?” Lip answered, and he sounded wary of the unknown number and the late hour.

“Lip?” Mickey sniffed, trying to compose himself. “It’s Mickey.”

“Is Ian okay?” he asked at once, and Mickey knew he had called the right person.

“Yea, he’s fine.” That was definitely a lie. “Well, I um…we had to kinda break up I guess, I dunno, it’s complicated but…I don’t think he should be alone with his um, you know...”

“Bipolar.”

“Yea.” Mickey walked into the garage, glancing up at Colin who was now waiting by his own black Range Rover, his brows pulling together as he saw Mickey’s face. Mickey tilted his head upwards towards his apartment, and Colin understood; he turned and headed up the stairs. “Can I come get you?” Mickey asked, shifting the phone to his other ear as he slid inside the Audi; and he at once smelt the echoes of Ian in the driver’s seat, and he chewed his lip to keep from fucking breaking something else.

“Yea,” Lip replied, and Mickey could hear him shuffling around in the dead of night. “I’ll be outside.”

“I’m on my way.”

~

Ian was standing in the same place, the warmth of Mickey’s release cooling in his cupped hand as he stared at the front door; he felt like he was in a fun house, like all around him were mirrors, reflecting back distorted images of all the things he hated most about himself. He glanced around suddenly – as if coming back to life – and remembered all at once that he was still inside Mickey’s apartment, and besides the cum, that was really the only way he knew that Mickey was real at all.

He went slowly into the kitchen, rinsing his hand in the sink with the hottest water he could possibly stand when the door suddenly opened, and he glanced up at the sound, his entire chest filling with something close to euphoria before he realized that it was Colin, and not Mickey.

“I’ll take you home,” Colin sighed, and Ian hated the look on his face.

“Guess this means things will be a bit easier on you guys.” Ian felt the tears in his eyes despite trying to be lighthearted.

“If you think this is what I wanted,” Colin said, his voice firm but sympathetic. “Then you don’t know me, and you don’t know the lengths I’d go to to see my brother happy.”

Ian glanced up at him then, the tone in his voice grabbing his attention. Colin’s face was serious, but he nodded the smallest bit – so small it was almost imperceptible – and Ian had the random, inexplicable thought that maybe it would be Colin – and not himself or Mickey– that would save them both in the end.

The silence in the elevator as he headed up to his apartment alone was overwhelming, but not as bad as the actual apartment itself; it was dark, empty, and way too big for Ian to feel any sense of comfort or home. He dropped his backpack in the middle of the floor, not even bothering to turn on any lights as he flopped down onto the couch, that sudden feeling of cold only growing as the quiet consumed him in the blue-ish white glow of the full moon and the city lights. Ian tucked his arms back around his chest, and realized absently that he was still wearing Mickey’s black sweater – the one he had worn on their date; the one he had worn when he came to meet his family – and Ian lay himself down, pulling his knees up to his chest and tucking his body as far into the sweater as he could as he let the smell of home – which now meant Mickey – wash over him.

Ian closed his eyes; at first he knew nothing beyond the simple fact that Mickey had left him, and that that had created a hole inside of him he didn’t think could ever be filled; but as he lay there alone, the repercussions of what that actually meant came flooding in one by one, bit by bit: that he may not ever get out of this life; that he may never actually speak to Mickey again – he may not ever _see_ Mickey again. Mickey may just disappear into the night, just as quickly as he had come…

Each thought was like a pinprick in a bag of water, and all that Ian was came pouring out, and he was all at once worried that something else besides his heart might break inside him; so he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, staring at that picture of Mickey that had kept him sane since day one, before putting on his music – as loud as it could go – before the silence killed him.

Ian lay like that for only a minute or two, the same song echoing throughout the apartment when there was a soft knock on the door, and Ian lifted his head, hoping quietly that maybe it was _him_ , even though he knew it wasn’t.

“Ian?” a voice called from the other side, and Ian got up at once when he heard the familiar cadence, opening the door to let in his brother.

“Lip?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at his sudden appearance, and tried his best to keep from crying as Lip wrapped his arms around him, holding Ian together there in the hallway, and every soft pat on his back was like a small piece of tape being pressed over a pinprick.

“Mickey told me everything,” Lip admitted, and despite the pain, Ian smiled at both Mickey’s name and that truth…

because of course he had. Of course Mickey had brought Lip to him. Of course he had cared enough to worry. Of course he would know Ian was vulnerable; because Mickey _knew_ him; because Mickey _loved_ him – at the end of the day, Mickey fucking _loved_ him – and _that_ would be enough for now; everything else, Ian knew, could be changed.

Suddenly, as if a switch had been flipped back on somewhere inside of him, that little light on the shore returned, if only a speck in the darkness.

~

Mickey drove; the only other thing he wanted to do was turn the car around and go back to _him_ , but he couldn’t do that, so instead, he drove, and he fucking thought.

He was in Milwaukee before he knew it, driving through the city in the dead of night, the stars becoming clearer on its outskirts than they did in Chicago because of its smaller size and dimmer glow.

Then he was in Green Bay, driving over the Fox River in the pre-light of dawn, not even knowing how the fuck he had ended up there when his phone rang, Colin’s name popping up on the dash screen; Mickey didn’t want to answer it – didn’t want to talk right now – but he knew he had to.

“How was he?” Mickey asked, and fuck the formalities.

“About as good as you’d expect.”

Mickey was quiet for a second, pulling his car off into a lot in this random, godforsaken city, where a few early-morning commuters were already on their way to work on this random, godforsaken Monday morning.

“How long ‘til someone starts missing Grekov?” Mickey asked, trying to change the subject; nobody knew they had had him; nobody knew he was dead – yet...

“Doesn’t matter.”

“No?” Mickey leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes, absently tracing the outline of his orange-cased phone in his pocket.

“Pops got the call last night,” Colin said then, and Mickey’s eyes opened; he knew what he meant.

“When?” Was all he said.

“Tonight. Pops wanted you to do the drop-off but, I’ll do it.”

The _drop-off_ Mickey thought. Jesus. It had just been the _pick-up_ , and now he was going back.

“Probably for the best,” Mickey admitted, but that was a lie; he wanted to be the one to take Ian back, to maybe give him something to hold onto, for just a little while.

“I need to see you,” Colin said, and his tone changed to one of importance. “After I drop Curtis at the Fairy Tale, I’ll come over.”

“I dunno man, I just…”

“I have a plan,” Colin interrupted, and Mickey looked at the screen, as if it were Colin himself; he had been thinking for hours now, planning, trying to come up with _something_ as he drove, which is how he had ended up here; but as of now, he had fuck all.

“I’ll be there.”

It was almost noon by the time Mickey got back home, parking the Audi and heading slowly up the stairs.

 _Fuck_ , he was tired.

Locking the door behind him, he glanced around, and his apartment felt inexplicably bigger, as if there were suddenly more places – more spaces – where Ian _wasn’t_. Despite there only being a shattered mug, a cracked TV, and a shifted table, everything else still felt ruined – felt wrecked and fucking broken – so Mickey turned away from it all, absently noticing Ian’s hoodie hanging on the hooks behind his door; his breath caught a little when he saw it, and he pulled it down, feeling it beneath his fingers as if it were Ian himself before putting it up to his face, inhaling deeply as he walked back to his bedroom. He didn’t even bother getting undressed, he just kicked his boots off into a corner before he flopped down on the bed, tucking the hoodie up under his cheek and falling promptly to sleep to the idea that Ian wasn’t actually gone, but was right there beside him – a speck of light in his darkness; and beside that speck was another one, slightly more luminous, and _that_ speck, was Colin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry. It had to be done. One night for the beginning, one night for the end... (not the end end but you know what I mean!)  
> -For this chapter I know there are some unanswered questions, but they will be addressed, trust me! I simply wanted to focus on the confusion of both of them in this singular moment that would change them, and try to just let their emotions speak for themselves instead of explanations! But don't worry, it will all come out in the end....  
> -Ian is listening to Here With Me by Susie Suh when he is alone, trust me, it is perfect for him and makes the good tears flow.  
> -Just remember, you can only count on family!  
> -And another quick edit and note for those wondering: this is NOT the end! Obviously! I simply wanted to mirror my very first chapter with them meeting,and use the same construct (a few hours over one single night) for their "final" scene. It just felt right for me artistically! This is why I tried to make the reference to the "drop-off and the pick-up" at the end!  
> -Yes, we are going to find out a HELL OF LOT more about Okulov and Ian...


	9. Others

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey and Ian have to deal with separation as old faces come back into their lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have *tentatively* put a total chapter count of 15, though this may be subject to change! Right now I am kind of guess-timating, though I am thinking 15 should be around the finish line!  
> This chapter was hard to write - mostly because I hate when my chaotic boys are apart, but nevertheless, I hope you enjoy it!  
> Thank you again to everyone who comments, reads, writes, kudos, whatever! I am so thankful for every one of you.  
> As always, please feel free to follow me on Twitter @WhatsaMattavich for weekly updates, excerpts, etc etc!!!

Ian awoke to the sound of his work phone ringing; as he registered the sound, his eyes peeled open to the soft light of morning, and a brief sense of calm washed over him – that sense of peace that always came at first light and wakefulness – and he half-expected to see Mickey there beside him – his face quiet on the pillow – before that calm was suddenly shattered and he remembered everything, his new reality stabbing sharply into his chest like a serrated blade. He rolled over, at once grabbing the phone from off the bedside table, but the number on the screen was one he had never seen before, and the hope inside him died.

“Hello?” he croaked, voice hoarse from a night of talking with his brother and trying not to cry.

“Curtis?” someone said, and Ian thought he recognized the voice.

“Colin?”

“Yea.”

“Where’s Mickey?” he asked, and it wasn’t a question born out of genuine curiosity; it was just a natural instinct for Ian to wonder where he was.

“Green Bay, I think,” Colin admitted, and he sounded tired. Ian’s eyebrows pulled together.

“Green Bay?”

_Why the fuck would Mickey be in Green Bay…?_

“Yea. Went for a drive.”

 _Of course he did_ , Ian thought, and glanced at the clock; it was coming up on 8:00am, so he leaned over, turning off the alarm on his personal phone before counting out his meds and swallowing them in a single go.

“Have you talked to him?” he inquired, just needing to know _that_ much, at least.

“Yea, an hour or so ago,” Colin admitted, and Ian took a deep breath.

“Is he okay?”

“Whatta you think?”

Ian almost let a smile pull up the corner of his mouth at that, because he already knew the answer: of _course_ he wasn’t okay – neither of them were – but at least they knew it was because they thought they were doing the right thing, and not because their feelings had suddenly changed.

Lip had helped Ian grasp that during the night – as they had sat in his living room in the dark, Ian rubbing his hands up over the sleeves of Mickey’s sweater to keep himself warm, and Lip smoking one cigarette after another as he glanced out at Ian’s skyline view, watching the moon move across the sky. Not that Ian thought Mickey’s feelings _had_ changed – he knew they hadn’t – but he couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that they needed to be apart. Lip spent at least an hour driving home the fact that Mickey knew better than Ian ever would what it was like in this life – the dangers that came with it – and if Mickey thought it was safer this way – if it was better – then Ian was just going to have to live with the consequences for now, because at the end of the day, Mickey was doing it because he loved him, and wanted to keep them all – all the fucking Gallagher’s – safe; and in the end, wrapping his head around _that_ had been easy.

Ian loved him more for this of course, but just because he understood it didn’t mean he wanted to accept it; why would he? Why would he want to accept losing the man he loved? It may not be the actual _love_ he was losing – Ian knew he had that now, and probably always would – but Ian thought losing the man himself was almost worse, because Ian knew Mickey was out there somewhere, just as lost and in love, but they couldn’t go to each other – couldn’t let themselves have each other and have the life they wanted – and fuck, that wasn’t _almost_ worse, it _was_ – it was way, _way_ fucking worse.

“Did you call for Mickey’s sweater?” Ian asked absently, thinking that was maybe the only real reason he would be calling. Ian glanced downwards at the black fabric, lifting the collar up over his nose so he could breathe it in, and he didn’t ever really want to take it off…

“What? No.” Colin snorted a little, and that _did_ make Ian smile, if only for a split second. “I called because Sirko contacted us last night.” Ian felt his heart sink and that smile disappear. “You’re being sent back to the Fairy Tale.” Colin said this straightforwardly, like he was talking to any employee – any escort – and Ian almost hated him for it, but he understood.

“When?”

“I’ll pick you up at seven, if that works?” Ian glanced absently at the clock, his stomach turning over; he had thought he would have more time in this place – more time to accept the fact he was going back, more time to prepare – but then again, what did it matter now?

“Did Mickey not want to drive me himself?” he asked, his voice quiet as that burning sensation returned to the space behind his eyes, and he tried to steel himself – to hold onto the simple facts he knew.

“I offered,” Colin replied, sniffing loudly in the silence, which just reminded Ian of Mickey and made tears well inside his eyes. “I’m not sure when you’ll see him ag…”

“I know,” Ian interrupted, and didn’t want to think it himself, let alone hear anyone else say the words out loud.

They were both quiet for a moment, trying their best to skirt around the elephant in the room that made them both uncomfortable as Ian wiped at his eyes.

“Don’t worry about your things,” Colin said finally, masterfully managing to change the subject. “We’ll have them moved.”  
“I know how it works,” Ian sighed, the words coming out with more poison than he had intended.

“Then I’ll see you at seven.” With that, Colin hung up, and Ian set the phone gently down onto the duvet, his eyes drifting to the side windows that surrounded him as he stared blindly out at the city. He wasn’t tired anymore; he was suddenly wide awake, his mind beginning to race as if he had just hit the _start_ button on the treadmill of his thoughts, things slowly starting to trickle in before all the gears were moving at high-speed.

Ian didn’t want to go back; the idea of going back when he had still been with Mickey was one thing, because Mickey had given him something to look forward to – to survive for; but now that he was alone again – adrift at sea once more – he didn’t see the point, other than the money; the money was all he had been holding onto for so long, but Ian didn’t think he cared about that anymore, either; he just wanted to get the fuck out, and get out for good. If Mickey couldn’t help him with that now, which Ian supposed he _couldn’t_ – he didn’t think Mickey was at home making plans, considering the situation he found himself in with his family, Sirko, and the Russian – then maybe Lip _could_ ; maybe he and Lip could come up with _something_ , and maybe if Ian could disappear on his own – find a way out – he could find a way to let Mickey know he was okay, and maybe Mickey could do the same – somehow – and that could work, right?

Ian fell back down onto his pillow, tucking it tightly under his head as he tucked his nose back into the sweater, letting the treadmill turn and turn and turn until he could no longer stand it, and his dreams reclaimed him.

Ian felt the bed shake suddenly – felt the weight shift – and his eyes flew open; Lip had thrown himself onto the duvet beside him, nothing on but a pair of boxers, and a cigarette hanging out of his mouth that smoked wildly in afternoon light.

“What fucking time is it?” Ian yawned, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“Almost one.” Lip held the smoke out for his brother, and Ian took it willingly. “Get the fuck up, I gotta go.”

Ian took a long drag, then another, his mouth suddenly feeling disgusting and fuzzy, like he had licked the bottom of an ashtray, but whatever. He glanced at his brother – saw the tattoo on his chest in the same place that Mickey’s was – and his own chest tightened a little at the thought of Lip having to leave, too. It seemed suddenly like all anyone was doing these days was leaving, and Ian didn’t want any of them to have to go fucking anywhere, but he knew that right now, none of them really had a choice.

“Think we could make a plan to get me out?” he asked randomly, handing the cigarette back, and fuck it, he thought he’d give it a shot. Lip turned his head to look at him, hand scratching absently over his bare chest as his brows furrowed.

“You don’ think Mickey’s workin’ on somethin’ already?” Lip’s mouth pulled up the smallest bit in a smile, and something about this made Ian smile, too – made a warmth spread into his chest; because Ian thought that if Lip had the notion that Mickey was going to figure something out, it didn’t seem as stupid or inconceivable as if he himself was thinking it, because Lip was smarter – sometimes saw things a lot clearer – and Ian was just a stupid boy in love, so he knew he didn’t always have the ability to see things clearly at all.

“You think?”

“You didn’t see him last night,” Lip admitted then, and Ian looked at him.

“Was he a fucking mess?” Ian grinned a little at the thought of Mickey being out of control like he himself had been, and in front of Lip, too…

“Fuck no,” Lip spat, and Ian’s smile faded.

“Oh…” Ian looked up at the ceiling, and Lip reached a hand out, smacking Ian’s stomach with the back of his hand in a gesture born out of reassurance.

“Never seen a guy more focused in all my life, man,” Lip confessed, “and I was in fucking University.”

Ian’s eyes met his again, and Ian _did_ smile then, because if Mickey was focused, it was because he was thinking; and if Mickey was thinking, it was because he was working something out in his head; and maybe – just maybe – he was working out a way to get Ian back, and get them the fuck out.

“I love him,” Ian said then, absently, simply, and it was soft and kind, but also full of hope and promise and humour, aimed at that stubborn, iron-willed Milkovich who could never let shit go; but _fuck_ , Ian was thankful for it.

“Yea, no shit.” Lip rolled up off the bed, glancing at the pills on the bedside table. “Hey you take your meds?”

“Yea.”

“Good.” Lip strolled around the end of the bed, smacking Ian’s foot under the covers for good measure. “Gunna be a stressful few days.”

At some point during the morning, Lip had made coffee; so Ian poured himself a cup after he had gone, streaming his music to the speakers in the living room so he wouldn’t be filled with so much quiet and loneliness. He leaned up against the counter, glancing down at the steaming mug in his hands, rubbing his thumb absently along the ceramic handle as he remembered the way Mickey had broken one of his own the night before in a fit of rage – or maybe heartbreak – and Ian chewed his lip at the memory, trying not to let his emotions get the better of him.

Not that Ian actually thought there _were_ any, but he tried to focus on more important things – like leaving; he looked around the apartment, strolling through the living room and down the hallway, thankful he had never really had much – it made it easier to pack up and go. As he glanced around his bedroom though – took in the sight of all his earthly possessions in the white blaze of afternoon light – the thankfulness at having so little slowly faded, and he was reminded of all the things he had done here with Mickey – all the things that would be left behind: that bed – which had rocked with them more than once – would stay – stay to be watched over by the very city that kept watch over _them_ as they did secret things in the dark, under open blinds, before falling asleep beside each other in the dim glow of her lights.

Pacing back to the front hallway – the cold stone tiles under his feet the very same ones he had once pinned Mickey against – Ian glanced up at the hole in the drywall, wondering absently if Margo would give the Milkoviches shit for the damaged property, and if she would notice it was the same size and shape as Ian’s open hand. Then he turned, leaning against the wall as he stared at the couch, remembering how Mickey had sat on the arm of it that very first day, handing Ian his own cigarette – warm with his moisture – and Ian had wondered then what he would taste like, and he remembered that when he had finally gotten the chance to find out, it was better than he had ever imagined.

No, he didn’t want to fucking leave, but places – Ian knew – _could_ be left behind, and the memories would still linger – unchanged – in his mind, even long after he had left. Ian could recall every detail of his home on South Wallace – every nail and every board – no matter how much time passed, and he was sure he always would; but it was people – not places – that were the problem; Ian knew people could never be left behind and left unchanged; their memory always shifted – altered over time – and Ian was altogether worried that Mickey would change, too, as the days passed – that one day he would no longer be there in static Techniclour, and that was what mattered to Ian in the end – not this place; not these walls – but his black-haired, blue-eyed Mickey – the Mickey inside of him that now lived as a black and blue bruise; but bruises – Ian also knew – were just the body’s way of holding you together after trauma.

Ian had no idea how long they would be apart – how long it would take Mickey or Colin to find a way out – but what if it was long enough that one day Ian awoke and could swear Mickey’s eyes had been greener, like his own; what if he would one day bet his life on the fact that Mickey’s hair was much more of a darker brown than black. This is the thought that made Ian’s eyes well up, and he set his mug down at once, walking directly into his room and grabbing the phone off his bedside table before tapping his way straight past Mickey’s picture to his name in his contacts, and calling him.

It rang, and it rang, and eventually, it went to voicemail. Ian felt his heart sink a little, and considered hanging up, but _no_ , he thought, _fuck that_ ; he didn’t want to forget.

“Hey, Mick,” he sighed, when the automated answering machine beeped, and he wished silently it had been Mickey’s voice instead. “You probably know already that I’m heading back tonight…to Sirko…but I just…I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry. I’m sorry for all of this happening, and I’m sorry because it’s my fault. I wish I had made different choices but…but I guess that doesn’t matter now. I know you’re going to try and figure something out, despite how we left things, because…because I know you and…and I trust you. I was thinking about just taking off by myself and fuck it all right?” Ian stopped for a second, a breathy laugh escaping his lips. “But then I just…I dunno. Fuck, I know I’m rambling, but…but I guess also thank you, for loving me enough to call my brother, and I know this will sound stupid but, I just wanted to know…your eyes are blue, right? And your hair is black? I know that sounds ridiculous, but I need you to tell me…somehow…just…just in case; and I know it’s corny and shit but well…my eyes are green-ish, maybe a bit blue and…my hair…my hair is really fuckin’ orange.” With that he smiled a little, and hung up, a single tear falling down his cheek onto the floor.

Ian spent the afternoon wandering around, shoving the clothes that he wore most into his backpack, along with all his meds, his three fucking phones, his laptop, and his earbuds. Once the bag was nearly full, he stared at it, realizing absently that _Jesus_ , this was all he really had in the world…

There was only one thing hanging in Ian’s closet – his Tom Ford suit – and he hesitated a moment before finally opening the door, as if the longer it stayed there, so would he. It was still in the designer bag it had been delivered to him in when it had returned from the drycleaners, and Ian eyed it – remembering – before unzipping it all the way, reaching out to touch the navy blue fabric inside. He traced a finger over the orange pocket square, folded neatly; grazed the collar of the snow-white button-down shirt; felt the leather belt slung over the hanger; and glanced absently at the box underneath – shoved in the dark corner of the closet – with the shoes inside. For a moment, Ian actually considered leaving it – when would he ever have the chance to wear it again? With Okulov? No. No fucking way he would tarnish their memories like that – but after a moment of contemplatiion and lip-chewing, he re-zipped the bag, carrying it out into the living room and laying it gently over the boxes that were already there – filled with the books he still hadn’t read, and the clothes that weren’t as important. He went back and grabbed the shoes, setting the box on the floor with the others, thumbing gently over the insignia on its lid before striding over to the couch, flopping down onto it, and waiting.

Ian sat and he thought – for hours on end – watching the shadows shift slowly across the floor as the sun drifted slowly across the sky. He didn’t eat – he wasn’t that hungry – but he _did_ consume the two cigarettes Lip had left him, and he _did_ eventually get up to have a shower, sliding reluctantly out of Mickey’s sweater before folding it neatly on the counter to be packed into his backpack, along with his other important things.

A half an hour must have passed before he finally stepped out onto the mat, so much steam in the room that the mirror was actually dripping with condensation. Ian had just stood there, letting the water cascade over him – warm him – while remembering all the things he and Mickey had done inside – against the tiles, against the glass, under the shower-head that fell droplets on them like rain. He had gotten hard at the memories, and had jacked-off right there in the white noise, closing his eyes to reality and imagining it was Mickey’s hand that gripped him and not his own – that bruised, tattooed hand that at first had been so willing but unsure, yet had still done things to him that Ian was positive could never be done again, and he fucking ached for him – every cell inside of him _ached_ for Mickey Milkovich.

There was a knock on his door at seven on the dot, and Ian got up slowly, hesitating one last time before opening it. Colin was there on the other side, with the same three men who had been with Mickey all those days before.

_Huey, Dewey, and Louie_ , Ian remembered absently, and despite everything, he smiled.

“Ready?” Colin asked, and Ian nodded, walking back into the living room, slinging his backpack up over his shoulder, and glancing out at the skyline, taking in one final view of the city before turning away for good.

“This is everything,” he said, motioning to the boxes, and almost felt a little embarrassed at the meager pile. Colin snapped his fingers – just like Mickey had – pointing at everything on the floor, and the men came in, shuffling around Ian as they grabbed at his things. “Be careful with the suit,” he put in, and the men simply did as they were told, still never saying a single word. Ian thought maybe the Milkoviches had cut their tongues out or something…

“Let’s go.” Colin tilted his head for Ian to follow, and he did, glancing up at the hole in the wall behind the door as he passed, his eyes burning for what he knew wouldn’t be the last time.

Colin was a good driver as well, Ian noticed, but not as good as Mickey; he wasn’t as focused on the road, and his eyes didn’t narrow in on every little detail – every threat or opportunity. Colin was more care-free, casually passing a car here and there, instead of weaving with just enough speed and tact to fly under the radar like his brother, and Ian suddenly missed that chaos – the hectic way in which Mickey drove – and the way in which it wasn’t actually hectic at all, but completely calculated and controlled. The thought almost made him hard again, because he wanted more than anything to possess that once more – to hold that wild creature in his hands and tame him like he was good at – because he was the only one who ever had, and like fuck anyone else was ever going to have the chance…

“You alright?” Colin asked suddenly, risking a quick glance in Ian’s direction before looking back at the road. Ian eyed him, not completely used to this level of familiarity – of _caring –_ from another Milkovich.

“Not really,” he admitted, and that was the truth.

“Open the glove-box.” Colin gestured absently to the handle in front of Ian, and Ian complied, reaching out to pop it open. Inside there was a Glock, resting on insurance papers. “Take it,” Colin said, and he was serious. Ian raised an eyebrow, looked at Colin for a second before glancing back at the gun.

“Like, _keep it_!?” he asked, his voice going up a little higher. Colin snorted in amusement.

“Yes, keep it. Just in case.”

Ian hadn’t held a gun since he was in the army. Of course he knew how to use it – how to strip it and clean it – he could probably do it right now with his eyes closed – but he was weary, nervous, if only because of the situation he found himself in. Despite this, he reached out, feeling the familiar cold weight in his hands before double-checking the safety and shoving it into the last space in his backpack.

“Did Mickey….?”

“Yea, he wanted you to have it.” Colin smiled a little, and Ian let the knowledge that Mickey would never leave him vulnerable warm him; but it only lasted for a second. Colin pulled off then into Boy’s Town, and Ian’s heartbeat quickened as that warmth quickly dissipated and was replaced with that unwanted feeling of cold as it returned to his chest, his palms beginning to sweat at the sight of the familiar streets.

“Never thought I’d be back here,” he confessed, and rubbed those palms on his jeans, blowing out a long, low breath.

“If you need to use it, use it,” Colin put in then – completely ignoring Ian’s comment – and Ian knew he meant the gun. “Then call me, or Mickey, and we’ll come…”

Ian felt a wave of relief crash through him inexplicably, like just knowing that if everything went to shit, he could still count on them – on Mickey – to be there.

“Speaking of,” Colin added, pulling up in front of the Fairy Tale, the neon light lit up despite it being closed on a Monday. “I’m going to need your phone back.” Ian looked at him, his mouth opening the smallest bit as that burning returned in his eyes, and fuck he was getting really tired of trying not to cry.

“Oh…” Ian reached into his backpack, fishing out his Mickey phone, feeling the black case with the chain-link design that looked like Mickey’s necklace in his hands; he seriously considered pretending he couldn’t find it before finally sliding it out, reluctantly handing it over to Colin, who just raised an eyebrow and smiled.

“Not that one,” he said, his voice sympathetic, and he must have seen the look on Ian’s face; he reached out and pushed the phone away, back towards Ian, and Ian’s heart slowed. “Your work phone from the club…”

“Oh…” he said again, but this one was full of relief instead of sadness. Ian reached back inside the backpack, digging out the matte-black work phone and handing it over to Colin, and it _still_ felt like somehow, he was giving up a part of himself.

“Thanks.” Colin tried his best to smile.

Ian was about to re-zip his bag when he suddenly caught sight of the small box he had put inside before Colin had come for him, and he pulled it out before he forgot.

“Can you give this to Mick?” he asked, handing the box over. Colin eyed it curiously, but took it, and didn’t ask any questions.

“Sure.”

“Thanks.” Ian glanced out the window, up at the familiar façade of the Fairy Tale, taking a deep breath that hitched inside his lungs. “I guess this is it,” he declared, and also tried his best to smile. It was awkward there in the car for a moment, just two men staring at each other in farewell, whose only thing in common was the different love they each had for the same man.

“For now,” Colin added absently, gazing back at the road, and Ian’s heart beat a little harder in his chest; it wasn’t the confirmation of a plan – of anything solid – but it was _something_ – a breadcrumb leading to a destination – and Ian held onto it for dear life as he opened the door, stepping out into the evening as he breathed, and breathed easier.

Ian pounded his fist hard on the back door of the club, just like he used to do every Friday and Saturday night; he glanced around absently at the empty lot, the fading blue sky, before David – night security – finally opened the door.

“Curtis,” he said, and Ian hadn’t really missed the sight of him at all. “Boss is out front.”

“Thanks.”

Heading in through the back change room, Ian looked around, half-expecting to see Sergei before he stepped out into the store room, past the walls of liquor and beer – where he had first laid eyes on Mickey Milkovich, out the swinging door to the front of the club, where only the overhead lights were on, and everything was quiet. It was all still familiar, yet somehow, it felt foreign now, too, like it had been years since Ian had been inside, not weeks. The smell was the same; the faces around him were the same; but it was all completely different from SS – from the Milkoviches – so Ian held onto the one thing that _was_ the same, no matter where he went – that palpable feeling of shady shit and business.

Shea Sirko was sitting in a booth near the front, and Ian steeled himself, hitching his backpack up higher as he glanced around the room, looking for Vasily Okulov; but it didn’t seem like there was anyone else around besides Sirko – a pile of papers and money sitting in front of him on the tabletop – and his personal security standing around by the bar.

Ian swallowed hard, straightening himself before going forward.

“Mr. Sirko,” he greeted, and Sirko glanced up at him, a smile pulling up the corner of his mouth that Ian knew wasn’t sincere.

“Welcome back.” Ian wanted to puke at those words and the lilted accent, but maybe the South Side in him also wanted to pull out the gun and blow the man’s brains out. “Have a seat,” Sirko added, and Ian smiled at the bloody thought in his head, not at the man.

Ian sat, sliding himself into the booth and setting his backpack between his legs; he was surprised actually that he hadn’t been searched, but then again, what fucking threat was an escort?

“Vasily Okulov has asked for you personally,” Sirko said then, and although Ian had been preparing for this for nearly twenty-four hours now, the thought still made him chew his lip, rub his hands together under the table.

“Yes, sir.”

“He’s requested your services tomorrow night at eight o’clock.” Ian swallowed again; felt his fists tighten. “You’re to be dressed and downstairs, business casual.”

The word _no_ was right there on the tip of Ian’s tongue as he eyed Sirko; he wanted to say it – fuck it, he wanted to _scream_ it – and just deal with the consequences later, whatever they would be; he also wanted to pull the gun out and just make a run for it, tell them they could all go fuck themselves and go to Mickey; Mickey would protect him, he knew it…

Instead, he asked:

“Will I be at the same apartment, sir?” and Sirko just nodded absently, glancing at the papers in his hands.

“Yes, same place.” He looked up then, scanning the room until he found the man he was looking for and motioned towards Ian. “Take him home,” he said, and the man nodded, tilting his head for Ian to follow, and that was it – that was the trade-off – and Ian had never felt like he was worth less in his entire life. He stood, sliding out of the booth as he considered the time that was laid out before him, and just how much of it would pass before he was back with Mickey…

~

Mickey awoke to the sound of his phone ringing in his back pocket, and he realized absently that he hadn’t even bothered taking either of them out when he had flopped into bed that morning. Peeling his eyes open, he also realized that he had apparently slept all fucking day, as the sun was actually beginning to set as he reached back and pulled out the phone, his bruising knuckles stinging as they squeezed between the fabric.

“Yea?” he groaned, and flopped onto his back, the zipper from Ian’s hoodie digging suddenly into the back of his skull, so he pulled it out from under his head, laying it absently over his chest.

“Jesus, about fucking time.” Colin snorted, and Mickey rubbed his eyes.

“What time is it?”

“Almost eight.” Mickey pulled the phone away from his ear and glanced at the clock on the screen, remembering all at once that Ian would be back at the Fairy Tale by now.

“Was that old geriatric fuck there?” he spat, the heat inside him rising, and holy shit, Mickey hadn’t had a cigarette in over twenty-four hours; suddenly his nerves were clawing at the underside of his skin, and his blood was screaming.

“Who, Sirko?”

“Yea.” Mickey got up, patting at the pockets of his jeans, then the pockets of his jacket on the hook behind the front door, and _fuck_ , where did he leave his smokes?

“Yea he was there,” Colin admitted. “His security was out front. Don’t know about Okulov, though.” Mickey stopped at that name, standing still in the kitchen as he let the hate he had for that man consume him for only a second.

“Won’t be long,” he hissed, and flung open the door, taking the steps two at a time in his socks until he was in the garage, opening the door of the Audi, digging through his glove-box, and there they were, thank _fuck_. He pulled one out, lit it, and _shit_ that felt good.

“I’ll be there in ten,” Colin put in then, and Mickey pinched the bridge of his nose, letting the nicotine work its way through him, calm him just the smallest bit.

“I’ll be here.”

Mickey went back upstairs, pulling out his other phone as soon as the door had closed behind him, and clicked the home button – he had one missed call and a voicemail that must have vibrated while he was asleep, and he couldn’t decide whether he was glad Ian had wanted to talk to him at all, or upset he had actually left him a message, because now Mickey was now going to have to hear his voice, and live with the fact he couldn’t taste those words in person.

“ _Hey, Mick,_ ” it started, and at the sound, Mickey sat down; it was so breathy, so soft, that he at once closed his eyes, pretending Ian was right there with him. “ _You probably know already that I’m heading back tonight…to Sirko…but I just…I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry. I’m sorry for all of this happening, and I’m sorry because it’s my fault._ ” Mickey thumbed his temple, feeling his lip tremble a little as he chewed it. “ _I wish I had made different choices but…but I guess that doesn’t matter now. I know you’re going to try and figure something out, despite how we left things, because…because I know you and…and I trust you. I was thinking about just taking off by myself and fuck it all right?_ ” There was a pause for a second as Ian laughed, and Mickey opened his eyes, a worry ebbing through him at the thought of Ian leaving alone. “ _But then I just…I dunno. Fuck, I know I’m rambling, but…but I guess also thank you, for loving me enough to call my brother, and I know this will sound stupid but, I just wanted to know…your eyes are blue, right? And your hair is black? I know that sounds ridiculous, but I need you to tell me…somehow…just…just in case; and I know it’s corny and shit but well…my eyes are green-ish, maybe a bit blue and…my hair…my hair is really fuckin’ orange._ ”

Suddenly the phone went dead and that was it, and Mickey smiled to himself – smiled at the home screen – at his naked, porcelain boy who said weird shit sometimes that made him feel things that didn’t always make sense.

Without even thinking, Mickey opened up his messages.

**Yea, Gallagher,** he typed. **My hair is black, and my eyes are blue, and you’re fuckin’ weird.** Then he turned, heading into the bathroom to rinse the crusted blood from off his hands.

Colin strolled straight to the fridge, grabbing himself a beer before heading into the living room, where he stood for a moment, glancing around at the carnage Mickey hadn’t yet had the chance to clean up.

“Jesus,” he huffed, kicking the coffee table aside so he could sit on the couch. “I was gunna put the game on but I guess…” Colin motioned absently towards the flat-screen on the floor, and Mickey snorted.

“Hang on.” He grabbed his phone from off the counter, speed-dialing Huey; or maybe it was Dewey or Louie...

“Boss?” one of them answered, and Mickey didn’t care who it was.

“Yea, go get me a TV,” he spat, lighting another cigarette. “Flat-screen, at least a forty-inch.”

“Will do.”

“And make sure it’s fuckin’ good.” With that he hung up, raising his eyebrows at Colin in a _you-happy-now?_ sorta way, and Colin just laughed into the mouth of his bottle.

Less than an hour later the Bruins game was on, and Mickey was standing in the kitchen, finishing the last sip of his beer; he was about to grab another when he noticed a small box on the table by the front door that hadn’t been there before.

“The fuck’s with the box?” he asked absently, reaching into the fridge, and Colin glanced over at him as if confused, before a light bulb clearly went off.

“Oh shit, yea, Curtis wanted me to give you that.” Mickey eyed his brother; hearing that name was like a kick to the heart, but he appreciated the fact that Colin still called him Curtis, as if always keeping that cover in play, which was just smart when it came to keeping these kinds of secrets.

Mickey glanced back at the box before strolling over, picking it up, and carrying it back towards his bedroom – whatever it was, he didn’t want to open it in front of his brother. He sat down on the edge of his bed, turning the box over in his hands – it was light, nothing seemed to shift around inside – and Mickey wondered if maybe it was just his sweater, but why the fuck would Ian put that in a box?

Hesitating for only a moment more, he finally lifted the woven flaps; inside there was a wad of newspaper bunched near the top, so he took it out, tossing it onto the duvet beside him, and underneath was a coffee mug – one of the ones he recognized from Ian’s kitchen.

“Fuckin’ Gallagher,” he whispered, to nobody but himself, and smiled as he lifted it out. On the white ceramic side, written in permanent marker, were the words: _actual_ _porcelain_. Mickey huffed in amusement, holding it firmly in his hands as he traced his finger along Ian’s messy writing before deciding to make a sudden promise to himself: that _this_ one he would never throw away – never shatter it; never break it – and he had the abrupt, errant notion that he was actually talking about Ian, and not the stupid cup, which had probably been Ian’s intentions all along; because Ian _wasn’t_ as fragile – wasn’t as breakable – and maybe he was trying to find a way to tell Mickey that, in his own way. Mickey looked at that mug and knew all at once that Ian would wait for him – would survive what he had to as he waited for him to find a way...

Mickey set the mug on his bedside table, tossing the empty box onto the floor before walking straight back out to where he knew Colin was waiting with a plan.

They sat and smoked and drank until nearly eleven, barely paying attention to the game, or the sports highlights that came after, repeating needlessly every twenty or so minutes. By the time they were done, Mickey was sitting all the way up, spinning a beer bottle cap under the tip of his finger on the coffee table as he replayed it all in his mind – as he memorized and remembered.

“Pops will call us in tomorrow,” Colin added in finality, finishing the rest of his fourth beer in a single swig. “To give us the regular spiel, like he does every year.”

“Can’t wait.” Mickey’s sarcasm was never lost on anybody, and Colin snorted in amusement before standing, tossing the empty bottle into the recycling bin and heading for the door.

“He can’t know,” Colin said then, and Mickey looked back at him; Mickey knew he meant Ian of course, but also – quite obviously – Pops, and for now, Iggy, too. Mickey simply nodded, and Colin actually winked at him, smiling – as if reassuring him – before leaving, closing the door firmly behind him.

Mickey leaned back into the cushions, his eyes closing as he went over it all again; and then again; and then he felt his phone vibrate suddenly at his hip, and he grabbed it.

**Ian: I’m not weird! I just like to remember things.**

 **Isn’t that what the stalker photo is for?** Mickey smiled despite himself – at the memory of Ian taking pictures of absolutely everything – but then his face fell, and he chastised himself for being so personal. Right now, it all had to be about business.

**Ian: Yea but, I just didn’t know if…you know.**

Mickey _did_ know, and he couldn’t imagine what Ian must be feeling. Unlike Mickey, Ian didn’t know when he’d see Mickey again; he didn’t know if there was even a plan in place yet; he probably didn’t know if he was supposed to give the phone back or not, along with the pictures, because he probably felt like it was no longer his right to have them, even though Mickey knew it would only ever be Ian Gallagher’s right to have a picture of him, no matter the circumstance.

Ian probably didn’t know if Mickey was going to cancel their phone plans all together, make it impossible for them to keep in touch…

**I’m not cancelling the phones.** Mickey added, to maybe ease his mind a little. A part of him _wanted_ to cancel them – to make it easier – but he knew if something happened to Ian and he needed to be there…

**Ian: I know. I was actually gunna call but my apartment is probably bugged or something lol**

Mickey knew Ian was trying to joke, but he also knew that that was actually a very real threat, especially considering the weird obsession Okulov had with him, which Mickey had been trying his best not to wonder at; maybe Ian was just _that_ good a lay, he thought absently – not that Mickey would know, since Ian had been his only one…

**It’s best not to call me.** Mickey sent, and felt a little bad at having to say it like that – felt a little tug at his heart – but until everything was in motion, it wasn’t worth the risk.

His phone was quiet for a few minutes, and he knew he had done exactly what he needed to, even if he fucking hated it.

**Ian: Ok…**

Mickey pulled out another cigarette, grabbed another beer.

~

Ian chewed at his lips, rereading their texts as he sunk back into his old couch that no longer felt familiar, even though he had spent endless months on it – day in and day out – just wondering what the Hell was coming next. He knew Mickey was trying to make it easier – to be distant and keep them safe for now – but that didn’t mean it didn’t fucking hurt. Ian flicked on the TV in the corner, putting on the tail end of the sports highlights – just for the white noise – the blue haze from the screen illuminating his little corner of the world.

The apartment was dark; it was only on the second floor, and it was in the back corner facing the alley, so there were no skyline views, no towers close by, no Lake Michigan in the distance, no glow from downtown lights, and Ian knew there would also be no knocks on the door at two in the morning from someone waiting impatiently on the other side. Ian had always felt alone in this place, but now it was worse, because he knew now what life could be like when he was in a better place – and he didn’t mean that physically, he meant it emotionally.

Glancing down at his phone after a few minutes, he realized that that was maybe all he was going to get from Mickey tonight, but he didn’t want it to be it.

**I have a date tomorrow, with Okulov.** he typed, feeling like Mickey deserved to know that, even if it may not be what he wanted to hear. **At 8pm.**

Ian sat, staring at the TV as he turned the phone over in his hands; eventually the commentary turned into nothing but muffled echoes as he drifted off into daydreaming, just waiting for _something_.

But Mickey didn’t answer.

Ian turned off the TV sometime after midnight, tossing his phone to the other end of the couch before getting up and heading straight into his small back bedroom, where he laid himself down – on sheets that he was sure were the same ones he had left on a month or so before – and tried to fall asleep; but as always, it was way too quiet. There in the silence, Ian suddenly remembered the voice-note from Mickey, and he sat up immediately, half-running back out into the living room and grabbing his phone before fishing out the earbuds from his backpack. He slipped them into his ears, hitting the play button before he was even back in his room.

“ _Hey_ ,” Mickey whispered, and the sound sent tingles throughout Ian’s entire body, just like it had the last time he’d listened to it only a few nights before. “ _I thought if anyone was going to whisper in your fuckin’ ears while you slept Gallagher, it should be me…_ ”

Ian turned off the lights, not bothering to get undressed as he lay back down and stared at the ceiling, letting Mickey’s voice lull him into a kind of trance as he listened. After only about ten minutes of Mickey’s rambling about New York, coming out to his family, and what he remembered of the South Side, Ian realized absently that he had reached the point where he had previously fallen asleep, and the last half of Mickey’s voice-note was still unknown to him; so he sniffed loudly, rubbing his eyes to keep himself awake in the darkness, and tried his best not to fall asleep.

_“…but that doesn’t matter I guess. Anyways, how long are these supposed to be? How long have I been talking for?”_ There was the sound of shuffling as Mickey obviously looked as his phone to see the time stamp, and Ian smiled. _“Fuck, only ten minutes? Jesus. Okay well, what the fuck else am I supposed to say? I’m laying here in my hotel room, and I’m thinking about you, I guess. Do you ever think of me?”_ Ian felt a flutter in his chest, as if the love he carried inside himself had suddenly sprouted wings, and was trying desperately to break free of its bone cage; because _fuck yes_ he thought about him, _of course_ he did. _“I mean, I know you do, but shit that’s corny as Hell. Are you even still awake? Maybe you’ve fallen asleep now, in your own little bed at home, which I imagine has rainbow sheets and a camouflage duvet…”_ Ian actually laughed, and the feeling of his stomach moving under his hand made him feel better. _“…and I imagine it’s only a single bed, some tiny IKEA bed in the corner of some messy-ass room, and sometimes I think about what it would have been like if we had met as kids, and I snuck up there and tried to shove myself in beside you, trying to squeeze both of us on there…”_ There was a pause, as if Mickey were thinking, and Ian closed his eyes, for once in his life actually embracing the silence. _“…maybe I should get a smaller bed…”_

Ian didn’t hear the rest, he was gone in dreams before he had the chance, the images of blue eyes and black hair and bad things in dark corners flitting throughout his subconscious.

**~**

Mickey reread Ian’s last text at least ten times, each time feeling the anger rise within him – feeling the jealousy try and swallow him whole as he thought of Ian, out with Okulov. The gears in his head began turning at an alarming rate as he tried to focus on the plan that was already in place, and not doing anything stupid or reckless in the moment. He grabbed another cigarette, smoking it carelessly as he paced around the apartment, stepping over the broken shards of mug that were still on the floor before he finally just grabbed his personal phone, hitting the last number dialed.

“Boss?”

“Find out where Vasily Okulov is staying,” he spat, and he knew exactly what he was doing. “Call me when you do.”

Mickey awoke the next morning to the ringing of his phone, again, and fuck he was getting sick of it; he rolled over, squinting at the screen before rolling his eyes at the name and sitting up against the headboard.

“Hey Pops,” he sighed, rubbing at his eyelids to try and wake himself up. Mickey was fucking good at lying, but there was something about lying to his father – or at least keeping secrets from him – that always put him on edge, like he was just a child again, waiting for Terry to realize there were only eight smokes left in his pack instead of nine….

“Meeting at the club at two,” Terry said, and he never sounded happy.

“I’ll be there.” The phone went dead, and Mickey glanced at the screen – it was just after 10am. He yawned, scratching absently at his bare chest, when he suddenly felt the subtle, raised scars of Ian’s initials in his skin that he kept forgetting were there, and he stopped, sitting there in the muted light of an overcast morning, just fingering the ink as he breathed, the memory at once sending his flesh into goose-bumps, and blood straight into his dick.

Mickey got up, immediately sliding out of his boxers, and he was already hard as a rock as he strolled naked into the bathroom, his cock pointing almost straight out in front of him. He turned on the shower, stepping up into the downpour and letting it enshroud him before he leaned forward, placing his left palm against the stone wall and wrapping his right hand around himself, applying just enough pressure that his muscles tensed and a bloom of precum dripped out from his tip.

Water cascaded over his head in torrents, and droplets sprayed outwards off his lips in a mist as he hissed out breaths in the heat, imagining the whole time that it was Ian’s hand around him and not his own, pushing him closer and closer to the edge like he did so well, until Mickey finally fell apart, in every way he possibly could.

It was raining; the sun had disappeared behind a wall of clouds, and an afternoon thunderstorm rumbled its way over the city as Mickey pulled out of his garage, taking it slower on the streets than he was used to for fear of hydroplaning right into oblivion. The wipers were making that sound they do – squealing their way across the glass in a hurried motion – and it was annoying the shit out of him.

Pulling out his Ian phone as he waited at a red, he glanced at the screen; nothing had come through since Ian had told him he had a date with Okulov tonight, and Mickey revved the engine for no reason other than being pissed and not knowing what else to do. He seriously considered calling him, flopping the idea around in his head as the light turned green and he sped through, the backend of the car shifting slightly before he regained control.

 _Fuck_ , he thought, and just wanted to know what the obsession was, and why Okulov couldn’t have been obsessed with some other red-headed kid from South Side…

Mickey felt like he hadn’t been to the club in ages, even though it had only been a handful of days. Everything seemed unfamiliar and empty now though, and Mickey knew he could walk down the catwalks now without having to glance downwards, because the one thing that had ever excited him about the place was no longer there, and it was back to being just four walls and a roof, instead of a safe haven.

“Mick,” Colin greeted as he slid into his seat at the table, and Mickey nodded absently. Terry was already at the head of the table, cigar smoking wildly between his lips, the sour smell of it filling the whole room. “The fuck happened to your hands?”

Mickey shot Colin a look, as Terry eyed his son’s bruising knuckles, and Mickey could tell Colin was trying his best not to laugh. He wanted to punch him; but whatever, he thought, whatever they had to do to keep their secrets…

“Asshole cut me off,” Mickey lied, and it was the best he could come up with. Terry actually laughed a little at that before glancing around the room.

“Where the fuck’s Iggy?” he asked, just as his middle son came through the door, doing up the top button of his shirt, and Mickey rolled his eyes.

“Can you fuck the escorts _after_ the meeting?”

“How about you don’t fuck them at all?” Terry spat, but it wasn’t that serious; they all fucked the escorts, even Terry, who actually had a favourite that danced on weekends – just like Ian had – and shit, maybe the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree…

“Sure thing Pops.” Iggy smiled, flopping down into his chair and winking absently at Mickey, who flipped him the bird.

Mickey glanced around, noticing absently that it was just them at the table – his brothers and their dad – and thanks to Colin, he already knew what this was about.

“Sirko’s wife is having her annual fundraising gala on Saturday,” Terry said, leaning back in his chair. “I’m expecting you all to be there.”

Every single year for the past seven, Shea Sirko’s wife had held a black-tie gala at the Field Museum to raise money for the underprivileged and impoverished kids of Chicago. All the rich, important assholes of the city were always in attendance, which obviously meant that the Milkoviches had been to every single one.

 _And shit_ , Mickey thought, _who else better to represent underprivileged and impoverished kids than the Milkoviches from South Side?_

“Maguire will be flying in from New York on Friday, too,” Terry added suddenly, and Mickey turned to look at him, sitting up straighter in his chair. This was new information.

“What for?” Colin asked, glancing absently at his brothers, and his tone was genuinely curious.

“To discuss business,” Terry answered bluntly. “He’s obviously been invited to the gala.”

Mickey thought about this for a moment, mulling the business over in his head. Maguire and the IFL had ties with the Milkoviches, not with Shea Sirko; but Sirko of course knew of him, and if he was flying in to meet with Terry Milkovich out of good faith – one of Shea’s most important partners – it would only be logical for Sirko to extend the courtesy of inviting him, because if there was one thing everyone knew in this business, it was that you never disrespected another guest in your own house.

“Are we picking him up from the airport?” Mickey asked then, lipping a cigarette. Milkoviches always made sure someone with the name was there, no matter what.

“Are you offering?”

“Sure.” Mickey shrugged; he _hadn’t_ been offering, but what the fuck did he care?

“Good. American Airlines flight from JFK, lands at six Friday evening.” Mickey opened his phone, putting that into his calendar, making a note to pick up one of the Range Rovers used for escort pick-ups. The note made him think suddenly of Ian and his date with Okulov, and Mickey bit his lip, hard.

~

Ian didn’t have another suit besides the one Mickey had bought him; he had had one, but it had gone to Goodwill as soon as the Tom Ford was in his hands – he hadn’t thought he was ever going to need another one, not for a while at least. Going on dates in his ten-thousand dollar suit while under the employ of the Milkoviches – while he was still with Mickey – hadn’t been such a horrible idea to him; he would have felt comfortable, powerful, and maybe a bit tongue-in-cheek, like Mickey would always be wrapped around him, even if he was being blown in the back seat by some needy client, and the idea of those clients thinking they were in possession of him while he was actually wrapped up in another – in one of the very men who controlled Chicago – made his blood hot. But wearing the suit with Okulov – especially now that he was technically no longer _with_ Mickey– just seemed wrong, like Ian may as well just hang the suit in the alley and throw buckets of paint on it – stain it, ruin it – and that was something he wasn’t willing to do.

Upturning his backpack onto the bed, the Glock fell haphazardly out onto the duvet; Ian picked it up and shoved it under his pillow before digging through his pile of important crap until he found his wallet, sliding it into his pocket along with his phones, once again heading out into the city to buy another suit – one that _could_ be tainted by Russian words and touches, and wouldn’t make Ian’s stomach turn entirely inside of him at the thought of wearing it.

Mickey still hadn’t messaged him. Ian stood looking in the bathroom mirror, combing his hair back into place, straightening the cuffs and the collar of his light-blue shirt as he kept glancing absently at his phone on the counter beside him; he hadn’t bothered with a jacket – business casual to him meant he could get away without one, and he wanted so badly to text Mickey and ask if he was right. Ian hit the home button and the screen came to life, Mickey’s side profile causing his chest to tighten; it was 7:45pm, and he had to be downstairs in ten minutes, which Mickey would know; so why the fuck hadn’t he said anything?

Ian opened his messages and stared at the flashing icon, tapping his fingers on the sides of the phone, considering; but maybe Mickey didn’t want to talk to him, and could he blame him? Ian knew how he’d feel if the situations were reversed – if _he_ was sitting at home right now, knowing Mickey was going out with someone else – someone he might have to fuck – and just the idea of it made heat rise up Ian’s chest, flushing it red before it reached his cheeks.

“Fuck,” he huffed, not typing anything at all before strolling back into his room and sliding the phone in with his gun for safe keeping. Sirko’s driver – who had dropped him off the night before – had given him his old phone back, and Ian wondered absently if Sirko had kept _all_ of his old things around – the apartment, the phone, the fucking bed sheets – because he had always known Ian would be coming back, and Ian hated him for it.

The rain had cleared, and the low-hanging clouds were dissipating as the night slowly darkened. Ian glanced upwards, closing his eyes to the sky, breathing in the cooling night air as he tried to calm himself and the erratically beating heart within his chest. He waited like that for a few minutes – eyes closed to the world, his mind in whatever place Mickey was – before he suddenly heard the sound of tires on the pavement before him, and his eyes flew open, staring directly up into the sapphire sky that looked like those eyes he loved as he steeled himself, before finally risking a glance at the black SUV he already knew was at the curb.

Ian had almost forgotten how tall he was, and he felt remarkably small suddenly – child-like – as Okulov opened the back door and stepped out, his six-foot-something frame towering above the car; he looked the same otherwise, Ian thought absently, and why wouldn’t he? It had only been a few months since he had last been Stateside; his blonde hair was only slightly shorter – freshly cut – and his eyes were just as brown, but in the slow-fading light Ian noticed that they looked almost black, which he thought was more fitting.

Okulov did up the button of his jacket as he strolled around the front of the car, coming up to Ian as if they were old friends – lovers, even – and not the product of questionable business.

“Vasily,” Ian sighed, glancing up at him, and bit the inside of his lip, mostly to keep from spitting as he feigned a smile.

“It’s been too long.” Okulov stepped forward, wrapping a tattooed hand to the back of Ian’s head as he stared down at him, and Ian thought that it hadn’t been long enough – not even close, and that his hand felt too big, and the tattoos were all wrong. “You look good,” he added – a smile pulling up the corner of his lip as his thumb moved back and forth through Ian’s hair – and he gazed at Ian then, from hairline to toes.

 _No, not gazing,_ Ian thought, _eye-fucking_.

 _Mickey_ gazed at him – Mickey gazed at him out of adoration, like he would never be able to get enough of just the sight of him, whereas Okulov eye-fucked him – looked at him with eyes that had _possession_ and _ownership_ written within them, like he was surveying a cache of weapons, wondering just how much he could get for them.

“Thank you,” was all Ian could say, stepping casually out of Vasily’s grasp, his fake smile widening. “Shall we?” Ian reached out, opening the back door for his date – a move that fucking pained him, made his nausea return; but what choice did he have now? Everything, everywhere, was back to business.

~

There was another Blackhawks game on, and Mickey sat on his couch, his legs bouncing up and down as he stared at the TV; he had no idea what the score was, what period they were in, he didn’t even give a shit, because he wasn’t _watching_ , he was just staring, his eyes focusing somewhere beyond the actual screen as his mind raced. Ian would be with Okulov now, and every nerve-ending within Mickey’s body was radiating with hate – with jealousy – at the thought. He got up, lighting his fifth cigarette in an hour, trying not to think about Ian being touched, being wined and dined by someone who wasn’t him. It was really no different than one of his regular client dates, Mickey thought, which he had never had a problem with; but at the same time, it was _entirely_ different – not even in the same league or category. Okulov had _been_ with Ian before – maybe in all the ways Mickey had – and fuck, was there anything worse than that? He was probably going to be with him tonight…

Mickey went to the fridge and opened the door, beer bottles clanking at the movement; then he opened the freezer; then the cupboards; he was just opening doors, looking for something he knew wasn’t going to be there.

_Fuck this._

The address and room number of Okulov’s hotel had been sent to him late last night, just like he had asked, and he opened his phone again, glancing at it, imagining all the things he could do – how he could sneak through the lobby, cut the cameras, get past all those Russian bodyguards and heavyweights; how he could sneak into that room after he falls asleep – maybe with Ian right there beside him – and blow his Russian brains out all over the crisp white linens…

But that wasn’t the plan they had in place; so he chewed his lips instead; scratched at his eyebrows; thumbed his temples; before finally grabbing his keys off the counter and heading down to the garage anyways, if only to drive.

~

Ian sat in the backseat, watching the neon lights pass them by as he felt Okulov’s eyes boring into the back of his head; he knew he was going to have to turn around eventually and make it seem like nothing at all had changed; he was going to have to talk to him, and actually try and make conversation – say sweet things like the old days, like a good escort does…

Ian took a deep breath, then another, before finally shifting in his seat, their eyes meeting in the passing shadows.

“So where are we going?” Ian asked, and reached a hand out, absently trailing a finger gently over Okulov’s knee; everything inside of him told him not to do it – to not make any moves that would drive them right into the bedroom, where he knew they always ended up anyways – but at the same time, he didn’t want to seem suspicious or off-putting, or place any doubt in Vasily’s mind that would maybe put Mickey in his crosshairs. Ian had decided long before this moment that sex with a Russian arms dealer was better than Mickey in trouble, and shit, it _was_ technically still his job…

“To the old spot,” Okulov replied, and smiled, grabbing onto Ian’s hand and holding it in place on his knee. Ian glanced back out the window, squeezing the hand that held his gently – as if reassuring him – but Ian pretended the hand was someone else’s.

The _old spot_ was a Michelin 3-star restaurant on the north side of downtown, near the water; they had been there together before – a couple of times – so Ian strolled purposefully past the other tables towards the heated, covered patio – straight to the same table that was reserved for them every single time.

“You remembered,” Vasily observed, and Ian shot him a grin.

“It hasn’t been _that_ long.”

“Feels like it.”

“Does it?” Ian tried to sound uninterested, flat, but unfortunately the Russian lived for Ian’s attitude – it had been what first drew him in, Ian remembered. Okulov laughed, laying his napkin over his lap like he always did, and Ian noticed absently the men in black suits who followed them and stood outside the patio doors and at the front entrance.

“So is this place better than the Lakehouse?” Vasily asked suddenly – all his _th_ ’s sounding like _z_ ’s – and Ian’s heart almost stopped in his chest; the Lakehous was the lounge he had gone to with Mickey – where Mandy sang in candlelight – and Ian remembered all at once the sedan that had passed them by in the night, and of course he would know _that_ much at least, and _fuck_ , _Mickey_ …

“Which place is that?” Ian lied, following suit and setting his napkin on his thighs.

“I heard you went there a couple weeks ago, with a Milkovich, of all people…” Okulov eyed him; it wasn’t with anything more than curiosity, but it still made Ian’s stomach flip, his palms start to sweat under the table, and fuck, if there was one thing Gallaghers could do, it was lie.

“Oh, yea.” Ian smiled, taking a sip of the ice water in front of him, the condensation and sweat nearly making the glass slip from his hands. “Someone stole some shit,” he continued, dabbing at the sides of his mouth. “I had answers, so...” Ian shrugged, and figured he should go with the story Terry knew, it was probably safest.

“So Mikhailo Milkovich took you out as payment, eh?” he asked, and Ian almost choked at Mickey’s name on those lips – in that Russian accent.

“Yea,” Ian admitted, and what else could he do? “He’s uh, interesting,” he said, and felt like he could leave it at that.

“Oh ya? How?”

_Fuck_.

“He’s a great driver – nice car,” Ian confessed, and it was true. “But he’s umm, loud. Rude, I guess. Stubborn.” Although none of these descriptions were complete lies, it still felt like an indescribable betrayal to say it; but he _had_ to – had to pretend he didn’t care. “He’s also fairly short…” Ian surveyed his date then with flirtatious, half-narrowed eyes, trying to convince him of the fact that he preferred tall, blonde Russians, and it seemed to work, because Okulov leaned over then, his face coming so close to Ian’s that Ian could feel his breath on his chin – smell the floral cologne and the vodka he was sipping – and none of it smelt right – none of it smelt like home.

Ian closed the gap anyways, pressing his lips to Okulov’s; the warmth was only slightly unwelcome and the smallest bit repulsive, but Ian thought absently that if circumstances were different, it might actually have been kind of sweet, considering the hardened nature of the man in front of him.

Okulov had never kissed a man before Ian all those months before, and Ian wasn’t altogether sure he had kissed any others _besides_ him. Ian had also been the first man the Russian had ever actually taken out in the first place – hand-picked from of a line-up of escorts one night at the Fairy Tale, like cattle at an auction. In America, Ian supposed Vasily could do what he wanted – be who he was – and not feel the consequences like he probably would in Mother Russia, but unfortunately for Ian, it had ended in this obsession, and now he was more of a favourite play thing instead of an actual human being.

“I missed that,” Okulov breathed as he pulled away, and Ian smiled.

“Who wouldn’t?”

“Apparently Mikhailo Milkovich wouldn’t,” he replied, huffing in amusement.

“I think he’s straight,” Ian whispered, and he wrinkled his nose, feigning humorous disgust; his date laughed, and Ian did, too, mostly because the first image that came to his mind after he said it was his own cum pouring out of Mickey’s ass, and fuck, if that wasn’t the perfect thing.

An hour went by, and then two, nothing more passing between their lips but small talk and food. Ian feigned interest as much as he could, but found that sometimes he _was_ genuinely entertained by the fucked up stories his date told him of his crimes in Russia. What he loved most about Okulov though – about his stories and what he had to say – was that almost every other word reminded him of Mickey, and Ian had to bite his lip to keep from smiling at the worst, most inopportune times. When Okulov said _blood_ , Ian thought of Mickey’s knuckles, and his own blood in Mickey’s mouth that first night they had fucked; when he said _gun_ , Ian thought about Mickey’s Glock, and how he knew every hiding place inside his apartment; when Okulov mentioned _drugs_ or _money_ , Ian thought of the yacht – of Mickey getting shot – and fuck, if Mickey wasn’t the hottest chaotic criminal he had ever met…

Ian shifted in his seat, blood rushing to the wrong place at the worst, most inopportune time; but luckily his date didn’t seem to notice.

“I have a question for you,” Okulov put in then, and waved absently at the waiter, motioning for the bill, and the waiter strolled over, pulling it from the apron at his waist before handing it over.

“Mmm? What’s that?”

“There’s a gala on Saturday, hosted by the Sirko’s.” Okulov didn’t even bother looking at the bill, just took out a credit card from his expensive-looking wallet and gave it to the waiter, just like Mickey was prone to do. “I want you to come with me. As my date.”

Ian suddenly wondered if he’d even be around come Saturday; maybe by then, Mickey will have figured something out, and his heart quickened at the idea; then again, maybe that was way too soon, and what was he supposed to say to a Russian arms dealer, no?

“I’m supposed to dance on Saturday nights…” he said instead, and kind of hoped he would leave it at that, but of course he wouldn’t.

“I’m pretty sure if I asked, I could get you off the…how you say it…the hook?” Ian snorted at his accent – his attempt to grasp the English language.

_How many fucking dates am I gunna have to go on?_ he wondered absently, and feigned yet another smile, his cheeks actually starting to hurt.

“Sure, but…” he trailed off, leaning back in his chair as he extended a leg out, rubbing his foot along Okulov’s ankle. “I don’t have a suit.”

“Tuxedo,” Okulov corrected, and _shit_ , Ian thought, _a tuxedo_!? “It’s black-tie.”

“Not sure I could afford one of those…”

“Come back to my place,” Okulov said suddenly, standing. “I’ll take your measurements.” He did up the button of his jacket – but not as swiftly as Mickey could, which made Ian inexplicably happy.

“Oh yea?”

“Then I’ll talk to my tailor...”

“I mean…” Ian stood, breathing deeply to keep the nausea at bay. “If you insist.”

Ian went over different scenarios in his head – different excuses he could come up with at the last minute; he settled on either just getting it over with, which he knew would still feel like cheating – like even more of a betrayal – despite him and Mickey not _technically_ being together; or, he could pretend to not feel well – sickness always worked, because nobody wanted to be puked on; though, that _would_ be funny, he thought.

Suddenly Okulov’s phone rang in his jacket, and he slid it out, hitting the green button.

“Da?” he answered, and Ian turned away, glancing back out the window at his subtle reflection in the glass as they headed for the city centre. Ian didn’t really listen as Okulov rambled in Russian, his voice getting slightly louder – sounding more annoyed –before he finally hung up, and Ian looked back at him.

“Everything okay?” he asked, but didn’t actually care.

“One of my drivers is missing.” For a split second Ian didn’t care about that, either, until he remembered Grekov, and he chewed on the inside of his lip, glancing away. _That_ driver had gone missing tailing him on South Wallace, and whether or not Okulov had made any connections or not, Ian didn’t know.

“Did I know him?” Ian asked, wondering if maybe – just maybe – he could get _something_ out of him, just to see where he and the Milkovich brothers stood.

“Da but, not by name.”

“When did he go missing?” Okulov looked at him then, and Ian could tell he was debating whether or not to just come out and admit he had been tailing him, but clearly he thought better of it, which calmed Ian’s nerves a little – if Vasily wasn’t going to question him about Grekov – or even bring him up – he probably had no suspicions in regards to himself – or the Milkoviches, considering he had no idea they were even involved.

_Involved_ , Ian thought. _We’re involved alright…_

“It happens in this business,” Okulov admitted then, shrugging nonchalantly as if it was just another day, and wasn’t that the truth.

“Are you okay?” Ian reached out again, petting his fingers down Vasily’s wrist, tracing the rose inked onto the back of his hand.

“I will be soon,” he replied, and smiled, turning Ian’s hand over in his own, placing a gentle kiss to the soft skin of his palm, and Ian wondered if one day Vasily Okulov would disappear from the face of the earth, too.

As he always did, Okulov was staying at the Ritz-Carlton – in one of the penthouse suites on the top floors; despite having been in one of these rooms a few times, it never ceased to amaze Ian just how much money people had, and how unnecessarily luxurious things could be. He strolled right into the living room, staring out at the view of Lake Michigan from ridiculous heights. Below was the Navy Pier, with the Ferris wheel Ian had looked at while waiting in the car for Mickey at the docks, and although he would never tire of looking out at Chicago – from all sorts of different rooms at different heights – he _did_ tire of having to be at all these places with different people, doing the exact same things every time.

Okulov strolled towards the bathroom, where Ian knew there was a bathtub deeper than his own resentment, and that a couple times, Vasily had wanted to do it in there – he liked being taken from behind in the water, something about it calmed him – and Ian steeled himself once more as he heard the taps turn, staring out at the night-black water of Lake Michigan, imagining Grekov drifting somewhere below its surface, and thinking just how ironic it was that Okulov was looking for him, when here he was – laid right out before him – all wrapped up in waves.

“Shall I get us some champagne?” he asked, reappearing from the bathroom. Ian turned, listening to the white noise of the water running in the other room, and if they were going to be in the tub, at least Ian wouldn’t feel as dirty.

“None for me, thank you.” Ian never drank with clients, obviously – not with the meds.

“One of these days I _will_ get you drunk, Curtis,” he added, and seemed delighted at the idea – almost as delighted as Ian was to hear him use his alias, because he didn’t know him, and never would.

“Maybe you will,” Ian shrugged. “Maybe you won’t.”

Ian walked towards the window, leaning so close to the glass that his cerebellum became momentarily confused, and he wobbled – suddenly unbalanced – almost feeling a little sick at the height, like his brain was telling him he was too close to the edge, and one little push might send him over, falling into nothingness; but then Okulov was behind him, wrapping his arms around his waist and pulling him in against his chest – away from danger – yet the feeling of danger only grew, and Ian closed his eyes, trying his best not to fall.

“Boss?” a voice said suddenly, and there was a light knock on the door.

“What?”

“There’s a problem downstairs.” Ian opened his eyes then as Vasily nuzzled his neck, his nose resting against Ian’s pulse as he breathed him in before groaning in annoyance, a long hiss of air escaping against Ian’s skin. Okulov straightened, pushing his hair back into place before grabbing Ian’s waist and turning him towards him, his eyes so full of that wanting and possession now that Ian really hoped whatever was happening downstairs was really bad – or would at least be really time-consuming – and he could go home.

“Wait here,” the Russian whispered, and Ian smiled, nodded; but as soon as Okulov left the room, the smile disappeared, and he turned back towards the horizon.

Ian stood there for what seemed like an hour, arms crossed over his chest as he eyed the water below. In his mind, Ian knew that he himself was out there with Grekov; except unlike Grekov, Ian wasn’t actually dead yet – he wasn’t _that_ far gone, and he hadn’t sunk so far down that there was no hope of return. Unlike Grekov, Ian was bobbing at the surface –somewhere out there in the dark – keeping a weathered eye focused on that speck of light that was Mickey, and he knew beyond a doubt that he wouldn’t end up on the lakebed, being consumed over time by algae and drifting sands. Ian would end up on the shore – he would end up in that lighthouse. For now, he just had to keep treading water, and breathe.

When the door finally opened and Okulov returned, the look on his face had changed; there was no longer hunger within his eyes, but seriousness – a distant look that focused on something far away, and Ian could tell he was not only thinking, but troubled.

“Is everything okay?” Ian stepped forward, treading water, and grabbed onto Okulov’s jacket, playing with the collar as he looked up into his eyes.

“Did you know I was watching you?” he asked abruptly, his brows pulling together, and Ian had one of those moments you hear about – one of those moments where in a millisecond you have to decided on either fight or flight – lies or honesty – and the heat rose inside of him as his chest tightened with adrenaline.

Ian decided on fight – on lies – letting his own brows furrow, doing his best to look thoroughly confused.

“When?” he asked, and hated how easy it was for him. “Just now?” Ian glanced back to where he had just been standing, catching sight of his own face in the glass. He saw Okulov look at him then, and Ian could see that behind the charming exterior that he tried so hard to lay on, there was anger – weariness – that was threatening to spill forward at any second. Okulov was studying him, weighing out Ian’s reactions as if trying to figure out whether or not he was lying.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said suddenly, and Ian saw both their faces relax in the glass – felt the tension in his own body ease – so he finally turned back to face him. Okulov met his eyes for a second before glancing down into his hand; his fist was clenched, but he opened it slowly, and Ian saw that he was holding a gold ring, with what looked like the emblem of the Soviet Union on it, but it was hard to tell, as it was crusted in old blood. “I have to go unfortunately,” Okulov added, sounding suddenly resigned and cold. “I’ll get someone to drop you off.”

“Oh…” Ian sighed, trying to seem hurt even though he felt the smile playing on the edge of his lips, and he glanced once more at the ring, wondering what the fuck that was about…

“I’ll send a tailor tomorrow.”

_Fuck_ , Ian remembered. _The gala…_

“I’ll be home,” he admitted, and considered leaving the apartment for the day, just to be an asshole.

Ian strolled up the stairs to his apartment, the sudden urge to pull out his phone from under his pillow and see if Mickey had messaged or called was overwhelming. Mickey knew he had been with Okulov tonight, and Ian also knew that that would be eating Mickey alive, so he pulled out his keys, unlocking the door quickly before strolling into the dark. Walking into the living room, he reached out for the switch on the lamp in the corner, when suddenly there was a pressure against his back, and a hand grabbed his outstretched arm, wrapping it down around his waist as another came up over his mouth. Ian felt the hairs on his neck rise – felt that fight or flight instinct return – and he was about to throw an elbow in the shadows, flip someone over his back like he had learned in the army – break their arm – when the person shifted around in front of him, and the dim glow from the window illuminated the soft skin, that sharp nose, those blue eyes…

Ian felt his heart hammering in his chest, and it was no longer beating with adrenaline, but euphoria at the mere sight of him; he was wearing a dark sweater, hood pulled up over his head, and dark track pants, as if trying to be really inconspicuous, and fuck if that didn’t turn Ian all the way on. Ian bit at the palm of his hand against his mouth, and Mickey raised his finger up to his own lips in return, shushing him, before he tapped that same finger to his ear and then pointed at the ceiling, as if saying that people were listening. Ian nodded under the pressure, and Mickey pulled his hands away, releasing his grasp. Ian just stared at him as if he wasn’t actually real, his breath coming hot, heavy, from the adrenaline, and every fucking cell in his body was pushing him forward, as if those cells were the north poles to Mickey’s south ones, forever magnetized and wanting. Mickey could feel it too, Ian knew it by just the look in his eyes – the way his body shifted closer just a hair – and then it was all too much.

Ian went forward, and Mickey’s mouth was open before their lips even came together. Ian wrapped his hands at once around the sides of Mickey’s head, holding it tightly as if it was a fragile fucking gift – which it was – as Mickey slid his hands up to the sides of Ian’s face in return, then down to his neck, where he held him – thumbed the pulse in his neck where Okulov’s breath had been – and for the first time in a few days, Ian actually felt safe. He kissed him then – _really_ fucking kissed him – their mouths so urgent and relieved at the other’s sudden presence that teeth were clacking together as tongues moved over tongues – as lips sucked and bit at lips – only the wet sound of heat, spit, and breath escaping out into the room.

Ian slid his hands up into Mickey’s hair at the top of his head, desperately grasping handfuls as he pulled him in so close that his elbows rested on his shoulders, and as their bodies pressed together there in the dark, Ian felt his dick – harder than it had ever been – right up against Mickey’s stomach as he breathed. Ian reached down at once, fumbling with the buckle at his own waist, his breath coming out in heated pants against Mickey’s mouth, and Ian didn’t think he had ever needed anybody – anything – as much in his life. Suddenly though, Mickey’s hands left Ian’s neck and he grabbed Ian’s fingers, stopping them from pulling off the belt and holding them in place; their foreheads were pressed together, and they were breathing like they had just run a fucking marathon, but Ian looked down at him – questioning – as Mickey’s closed eyes fluttered open, and he shook his head.

 _We can’t_ , he was saying, and Ian felt his chest tighten – his ribcage harden as his breath slowed; but he nodded in understanding. If Sirko – Okulov – were listening, _that_ probably wasn’t the smartest thing to do right now, and for the first time all night Ian genuinely smiled at the thought, laughing quietly there against his forehead, so breathy that it barely made a sound.

Mickey grinned the smallest bit in return – that speck of light in Ian’s darkness growing – before pulling him in one last time and kissing him quickly, biting at his lip for only a second. When he finally stepped back out of Ian’s grasp, Mickey reached into his pocket and pulled out a phone – which Ian recognized as his own, that he had left under his pillow. Mickey pressed it to Ian’s chest, and Ian took it from him, eyeing it curiously before Mickey turned, and strode quietly out the front door without even looking back.

Ian stood still for a moment, staring at the back of the door, and realized absently that this room no longer felt as empty or unimportant – that it, too, now held memories.

Ian switched the lamp on and sat down onto the couch, tapping his way into his phone at once. It was already open to his conversation with Mickey, and there was a new message there waiting. 

**Mickey: Keep this hidden. Don’t call in apartment, it’s bugged. No cameras though. And good thing Iggy kept that ring…**

Ian sank back into the cushions, a sigh of relief escaping his lips. Of course Mickey would sneak in – somehow – and check the apartment; whether he had done it alone or not, Ian didn’t know, and he didn’t really care at the moment, he was too focused on the last part. _Ring?_ he thought. _What ring?_ Ian wondered at this for a second – wondered what the Hell he was referring to – when it hit him like a ton of bricks: that gold ring in Okulov’s hand – that ring that must have been Grekov’s – and despite the criminality of it all – despite the backhanded, illegal, unbelievably brutal business – Ian smiled to himself. Mickey wouldn’t let Okulov have him. Not like that.

 **Fuck I love you.** he wrote back, and he didn’t care if Mickey wanted to hear it or not, because he was going to say it; he was going to say it for as long as he could – for as long as it was true.

Ian got up, fully expecting not to hear from him again as he went back into his bedroom, changing out of his clothes into his pajama pants. His dick was still semi-hard, and as if on cue – as if knowing he would need him – his phone vibrated.

**Mickey: I love you, too. Obviously. Now check your photos.**

Ian’s brows furrowed, and he flopped onto the edge of his bed, tapping into his album at once; besides the picture of Mickey driving, Ian knew he had none – they were all on his personal phone – but sure enough, the photo count now said 2, so Ian clicked in.

There was a second photo now, and it was Mickey – it was Mickey’s naked reflection in Ian’s bathroom mirror – and Ian noticed at once he was fully erect. All the blood inside of him went directly south at that, and he was back to hard-as-a-rock in an instant; but it wasn’t even just the image of Mickey that thrilled him, it was the thought of him breaking in – of going over everything – _through_ everything – to make sure he knew the level of threat; and it was the thought that once he was done with that, he went so quietly into his bathroom, getting himself hard – probably to the adrenaline and the echoes of Ian around him – and giving him something he knew they both needed.

Ian wondered absently if Mickey had jacked off in his bathroom – if there was Kleenex or toilet paper in his garbage bin with Mickey’s cum on it – and at the thought, Ian laid himself down, shifting his pants down just far enough so he could grab himself; he held the phone out in front of his face as he stroked over and down his own moisture, his muscles clenching at once as the warmth spread throughout him.

Ian didn’t close his eyes; he stared at Mickey the entire time, his breath coming in shorter, faster bursts as precum leaked out of him at an alarming rate, making him slick. The sound of his wet hand sliding over himself was at once so consuming in the late-night silence that Ian wondered if someone _was_ listening, and if they could hear it; but instead of deterring him, it made him edge closer – his fist work faster – as if him masturbating to Mickey was a big _fuck you_ to whoever thought he would give up what he loved, and _that_ thought was enough for him; he pressed his chin into his chest then, curling forward as he shook violently apart, his abs contracting as his dick pulsed in his hand and ropes of cum shot upwards, landing on his stomach.

Ian actually laughed then – he smiled, and he fucking laughed – before tapping into his phone camera, taking a photo of his still-hard cock laying flat below his navel, the small pearly strings of cum, and sending it straight to Mickey.

~

Mickey probably shouldn’t have gone, but fuck it, it was too late now; he had taken precautions – had made sure they weren’t seen; had checked Ian’s place in its entirety. There were two microphones in the apartment – which looked like they had actually been there for a while – and Mickey was thankful that Ian had had enough common sense all those months before to never call his family – talk to anyone he knew – when he was inside its walls.

The ring _was_ part of the plan, though Mickey may have taken some liberties when it came to _when_ Okulov was supposed to get it. It didn’t matter though – if it meant he stopped Ian from having to fuck the Russian, Mickey didn’t give a shit – and everything else was still in place.

The picture however, _that_ had been impulsive, and Mickey smiled to himself at the memory of jacking off in Ian’s bathroom, his body filled with both the memory of him and the adrenaline that came with being a criminal.

Suddenly his phone vibrated again, and Mickey pulled it out as he drove the last few blocks towards home. It was a picture of Ian’s dick, still hard as a rock, even though he had obviously just cum – cum to Mickey’s picture, he knew – and Mickey nearly drove the car through a red, his skin rippling as his lips parted and he breathed. It felt like it had been forever since he’d seen Ian naked – seen the parts of him that made him hard all hours of the day and night – and Mickey wanted at once for Ian to be inside of him – to turn the car around and see if Ian could go again; but he couldn’t, not yet.

Instead, he waited until he was home – upstairs in his apartment – before he stripped down entirely. Laying himself in his bed, he did to himself exactly what he knew Ian had done – he stared at that picture, jacked off to the sight of Ian’s cum, and came all over himself as euphoria coursed throughout him, and he closed his eyes for only a moment before sending one final message.

**Soon.**

**~**

Ian reread that one-word text at least a hundred times before he fell asleep, and about a hundred more in the morning before he made coffee and ate breakfast. He wanted to message him back, to go outside for a walk and call him, but he also knew that that was Mickey’s way of saying _be patient_ , _be smart_ , and soon, Ian. _Soon_.

There was a knock on his door around noon, and Ian rolled his eyes; he took his two most important phones and slid them into his bedside table drawer, just in case, and threw on an old t-shirt before strolling to the door in his pajama pants to let in the tailor he knew would be coming.

“Will this be quick?” he asked – more so because he knew he could say shit like that and get away with it than anything else – and the tailor just nodded, walking into the centre of the living room and opening all the blinds for as much natural light as he could get – not that there was a lot of it. Ian followed him, standing still in the sun as he measured him – measured his inseams, his whatever – and Ian considered just getting his Tom Ford out from the closet and telling him to use that as a template but, no, nobody touched that but him.

Wednesday came and went without anything further, and so did Thursday. Ian called Lip, but didn’t message Mickey, even though he wanted to – every second of every day.

Listening to Mickey’s voice-note was something Ian did every night now, though he still hadn’t managed to hear the end of it – not because he fell asleep, but because he would stop it on purpose now before the end, as if saving it for later. It didn’t make much sense really, but in his mind, it was almost like there was still a promise left in those last five minutes, like if something went wrong and Ian never saw Mickey again – never heard from him – there would still be a whole five minutes of things Mickey had said to him that Ian had never heard – five minutes of Mickey’s voice – and he could keep it there forever, listening to it just one second at a time when he needed to, and Ian was sure he could make it last the rest of his life, able to hear him once more – every now and then – speaking to him as if he was right there in front of him, telling him something new.

On Friday the tuxedo came, and Ian carried it back into his room, hanging it in the closet beside his suit; he didn’t bother trying it on – a part of him kind of hoped it didn’t fit, and when the gala came the following night, he couldn’t go because of it, and Okulov would be left alone, just like Ian was because of him.

~

Mickey had never smoked so much in his life; he rolled the window of the Range Rover all the way down as he headed towards the airport, tossing his second butt out onto the freeway; he hadn’t spoken to Ian since Tuesday, and it scared him how only a few days could feel like a lifetime.

As he neared O’Hare, an American Airlines flight passed over him, rumbling loudly as it came in to land at the nearby runways, and Mickey knew on instinct that it was the flight from New York, and that Maguire was up there in first class, sipping Irish whiskey.

Mickey hit the turnoff for Terminal 3, lipping one final cigarette.

O’Hare may as well have been the back of Mickey’s hand he knew it so well; he headed directly to arrivals, waiting absently in his best grey suit for the grey-haired Irishman. There were people everywhere, everyone clambering and huddling as noise reverberated from every possible place you could imagine, and Mickey thought absently that Ian would probably love the airport; it was so chaotic and so… _loud_.

“Mikhailo!” a voice called then, and Mickey glanced upwards at the lilted cadence. Maguire was coming down the escalator, wearing the same grey suit he had worn in New York that matched his silver hair, and Mickey noticed suddenly that Fergal Maguire was right beside him.

_Fuck_.

Mickey bit his lip but smiled, nodded, and tried not to think of what he had done with Fergal’s business card as he took Maguire’s bag from him when they reached the main level.

“Welcome back to Chicago, sir,” he said, and glanced at Fergal, extending a hand in nothing more than formality. “Good to see you, Fergal.” Mickey had no idea why he had assumed Maguire would come on his own – of course he fucking wouldn’t – and he chastised himself at being so distracted.

“Good to be here,” he replied, and those eyes – those same fucking eyes – stared at him once again, for just the smallest bit too long.

“Can I get you anything before we head downtown?” Sometimes Mickey hated formal business, and sometimes he loved it; right now, he loved it, because it kept him focused, and kept his mind off other things.

“No no, I have a meeting with your father in just over two hours.” Mickey glanced at his Rolex, doing the math in his head.

“Might be a bit of traffic,” he admitted, heading back towards the parking garage as his guests followed. “But I should have you checked in and at the club on time.”

“Blackhawks game?” Fergal asked absently, and Mickey snorted.

“Always a fuckin’ Blackhawks game.”

Fergal sat in the passenger seat as Mickey drove; Mickey had expected them both to sit in the back, but then again, he had realized fairly quickly that Fergal wasn’t so much family as he was security – a heavyweight – and Mickey wondered absently just what happened when you got on his bad side. He risked a glance in Fergal’s direction; his reddish hair had been cut, and Mickey didn’t remember that cross tattoo behind his ear, but then again, he had never been paying much attention; not that he was _now_ , it was just that he found the attention of someone like Fergal rather curious – maybe somewhat of a turn on – despite not wanting much to do with him.

“Beautiful city,” Fergal said, glancing suddenly at Mickey, and Mickey looked quickly back at the road as if he were a child, caught in the act of doing something bad, which he rather felt like he had been. Mickey saw Fergal smile from the corner of his eye.

“It’s not the worst.” Mickey fished yet another cigarette from his pocket and slid it between his lips before holding the nearly-empty pack up to Maguire. “Do you mind, sir?” he asked, and Maguire looked up from his phone, shaking his head absently.

“Not at all.”

Mickey raised an eyebrow at Fergal, inquiring, and Fergal just huffed in amusement before reaching over, taking the cigarette from Mickey’s lips and putting it between his own before digging through his own pocket, pulling out his own lighter, and lighting it. Mickey watched as he took a single drag before leaning suddenly back across and returning it directly to Mickey’s mouth, and Mickey felt his skin go hot – felt the wetness of Fergal’s spit on the filter – and he knew that he blushed before shoving the pack back into his pocket and staring at the road, gripping the wheel a little tighter as he pressed the gas a little harder, and glanced up in the rearview, hoping like fuck that Maguire hadn’t seen.

Unlike the feel of Ian’s spit in his mouth, the feel of Fergal’s was foreign, and although it wasn’t totally repulsive to Mickey, it still felt…wrong.

Mickey dropped them off at the Ritz-Carlton to check in, glancing upwards at the tall façade as he waited, wondering absently if Okulov was up there somewhere twirling the ring around in his hands as he tried to figure out what the fuck had happened to Grekov, and who would make such a bold power-move against him.

Terry was waiting out front of SS when Mickey pulled up, a handful of security standing on either side of the main doors, one of which stepped forward, opening the back door for Maguire as Mickey got out.

“Until tomorrow, Mikhailo.” Maguire held his hand out for Mickey, who took it. The music inside the club was already loud as fuck, and Mickey was glad he didn’t have to go in tonight – he didn’t want to see it without Ian.

“Enjoy the club,” Mickey replied, glancing at Fergal, who knew exactly what he meant. Mickey _wanted_ him to enjoy the club – enjoy the men dancing for him in the back corner and the private rooms – because whoever he chose, it wouldn’t be Ian – whoever he watched, it wouldn’t be Ian – and fuck, it sure as shit wouldn’t be Mickey, either.

~

Ian stood in the back change room of the club, sliding on the gold shorts he had hoped he would never see again; the music was just as loud as it always had been – just as loud as it was at SS – but something about it didn’t fill him like it used to – didn’t make his heart beat with the bass, or threaten to pull him over into oblivion as he got lost inside the sound.

When he stepped up onto his platform, he automatically looked upwards, as if expecting to see not only the catwalks, but Mickey, too, watching him from above as Ian moved his body for him – danced for him; but when he realized there was nothing above him now but ceiling, he closed his eyes, trying to find something close to a rhythm as he did the best he could.

When he opened them some time later, Okulov was sitting on a couch in front of him, watching, and Ian turned his body towards him for only a second, giving him a glimpse of everything he would never have, before turning away, dancing for all the others who also didn’t stand a chance.

The following night, Ian combed his hair back in the mirror, gazing at himself as if he were a stranger; he had never in his entire life worn a tuxedo, and he had to admit that he looked pretty good. There was a video playing on YouTube on his phone beside him, instructing him step by step on how to tie a proper bowtie, and he glanced one final time at his work in the mirror, hoping it looked alright – not that Okulov wouldn’t fix it for him if it wasn’t; Okulov needed everything to be perfect, even his date.

Ian took a deep breath, wanting suddenly to take a picture of himself and send it to Mickey – to tell him he was going to a fucking fundraising gala – and ask if he could he ever imagine a South Side kid in a tuxedo. More than that, he wanted Mickey to see him like this – to see that he could look good and expensive, just like Mickey could, and that they fit together; that they worked…

Picking up his phone, he exited the video, actually opening up the camera, but at the last minute, he changed his mind.

_Soon_.

~

Mickey combed his hair back in the mirror, ensuring it was slicked perfectly into place –a soft wave forming at the front – before adjusting the Rolex on his wrist, making certain it didn’t get caught on his diamond cuff-links. Mickey would never get used to the sight of a South Side kid in a tuxedo – it always felt like putting doll clothes on a sewer rat.

The bowtie was tight around his neck, so Mickey pulled at it gently, trying to loosen it the smallest bit without undoing it – not that it would be all that hard to retie it, he thought; tying a bowtie to him was second nature.

The Range Rover with Colin inside pulled up at 8pm on the dot; the driver got out, opening the back door, and Colin stepped onto the sidewalk. Mickey noticed that his brother’s black hair was greased back just as neatly as his own, and that they were wearing matching diamond cuff-links. Colin also had a Rolex, though his was slightly more eccentric and expensive than Mickey’s matte-black one.

They looked like brothers; more than that, they looked like Milkoviches – and _that_ was something.

“You ready?” Colin asked, and Mickey let out a long breath, feeling the steel of his gun shift under his armpit; he was strapped now – as he always was in a tuxedo – just like he knew his brothers would be, too.

“Yea.”

They headed into the garage, sliding into the freshly detailed Audi before Mickey threw it into gear, and pulled out onto the streets.

They stepped out of the car in the fading glow of sunset – onto the red carpet that had been laid out from the road to the main entrance of the Field Museum – a long row of cars lining up behind them.

“Keep this parked here,” Mickey said to one of the valet drivers, and handed him a hundred along with his key fob. “Right out front. I don’t want it out of my sight.” The valet nodded and got in, simply pulling the car forward a space or two – out of the drop-off zone – and parking it up on the cement walkway.

Mickey always felt a little superior as he stood at the bottom of these steps, the local media roped off to the sides, trying their best to get pictures or quotes from the biggest fundraising event in Chicago as the local pigs held them back.

Colin came up beside him then, and Mickey glanced up at the entrance, adorned now with white and golden lights, and weird decorative balls that reminded Mickey of paper snowflakes. Halfway up the stairs, a sudden glimpse of orange hair caught his attention, and all at once he saw Ian, standing with Okulov, who was deep in conversation with Sirko’s wife. Mickey had known Okulov would come, and he had known he would come with Ian – he had been preparing himself all week; but no amount of preparation could have prepared him for the fucking feeling inside of him that reared up – jealousy mixed with anger – as Okulov laid a gentle hand on Ian’s back as he spoke.

“Mr. Milkovich!” someone called suddenly from the sidelines, and Mickey and Colin both glanced over to the roped-off area where the media correspondents all stood.

“I’ll do it,” Colin sighed, and straightened himself before strolling over to give a statement, just like one of them had to do every year.

~

Ian turned at the sound of Mickey’s name – someone had yelled it, he was certain – and he scanned the crowd below, looking desperately for that black hair and fair skin. Ian found him almost immediately; Mickey was at the bottom of the stairs with Colin, who turned away from him suddenly, heading towards the waiting hoard of media.

Mickey glanced up then – as if he already knew exactly where Ian was – and their eyes met. Mickey was in a tuxedo – every man was – but everyone didn’t matter anymore; his hair was combed back, his cuff-links caught the light of camera flashes, and Ian almost melted into the floor at the sight of him – at how fucking beautiful and sudden he was, just like the first night they’d met.

Ian hadn’t been expecting to see him, but of course Mickey would be there, he thought absently – his heart nearly pounding out of his chest – and didn’t understand why he hadn’t realized that before. This was Sirko’s _wife’s_ fundraiser – Sirko: the Milkovich’s most important partner in the entire continental United States, as Mickey had put it – and _of fucking course_ they would all be there.

Mickey looked at him for only a second, and Ian saw his eyes shift sideways at Okulov – a look crossing into them that made Ian’s heart squeeze – before a man Ian had never seen before came up behind Mickey suddenly, laying a hand on his arm and squeezing it gently as if he knew him, and Mickey turned away – turned away from Ian. Ian felt the heat rise in his chest – felt the emotion and jealousy – as Mickey smiled at the man with a cross tattoo behind his ear and hair that wasn’t quite as red as his own, and Ian thought that the man stared at Mickey for just a little too long…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mickey looks like a young Clark Gable in a tuxedo, I just know that he does.  
> Ian looks like a young Paul Newman with orange hair, maybe a bit of scruff.  
> Okulov looks like a villain from a Bond movie, which he basically is.


	10. Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jealousy is a fickle thing...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter turned out shorter than I had intended, because when I reached the end (the current end) it just felt like the right place to leave it. Everything else could wait!  
> Thank you to everyone who is here, and as always, please feel free to follow me on Twitter @WhatsaMattavich for weekly updates and excerpts and blah blah blah!

Mickey was prepared for this – at least he thought he was – until he glanced down at Fergal’s hand on his arm, meeting his eyes and smiling as genuinely as he could in front of Ian, who he knew was watching from halfway up those stairs; he wanted this night to be straightforward – nothing but business – but it was going to be hard with so many people trying to keep his attention. He wanted to shrug Fergal’s hand off – to pull away – but this wasn’t the time or the place – not in front of all the cameras; not in front of all the vultures watching them from the sidelines; not in front of Ian…

“Looks like quite the party,” Fergal observed, glancing up at the stone columns and fancy people trailing in through the glass doors before finally removing his hand.

“It’s all for show,” Mickey admitted, realizing that maybe he wasn’t as prepared for the hours of boring drivel and bad music laid out before him, either; or all the people – especially the Russian who was still touching Ian.

Maybe he wasn’t actually prepared for anything…

“Shall we?” Fergal asked, holding a hand out towards the stairs, and Mickey supposed he didn’t really have a choice.

“Yea.” He sniffed, straightening his jacket and steeling himself the best he could – swallowing hard against the nerves – before making his way up the stairs, trying with everything he had not to glance in Ian’s direction as they passed him, even though he wanted to, and even though he could feel Ian’s eyes on him – on Fergal – until they were all the way up through the main entrance and out of sight.

Despite being officially in his mid-twenties, Mickey always felt a bit like a kid again when he was back inside the Field Museum, looking at all the things he never really learned about in school because he never actually paid attention. He stood next to Fergal in front of the two massive stuffed elephants that still fascinated him after all these years of fundraiser galas – the way their skin looked like leather and their tusks were kind of shiny in the lights. He glanced sideways at the dinosaur bones – at the skeleton that was still bigger than he could really comprehend – remembering all the books he used to look at when he was a kid; and even though he felt stupid admitting it to himself, he thought it was kind of cool here.

People floated all around them – women in expensive gowns, men in their black tuxedos, ushers and waiters with trays and fake smiles; Mickey watched as some of them flitted around the room, mingling with other rich assholes – which he supposed is what he was doing – as the rest sat absently at the white tables adorned with tall flowers and candles, speaking in hushed tones, their eyes sparkling in the warm light. It was like watching mice in a maze, Mickey thought, as the sound of the string quartet in the middle of the room echoed out around him like a soundtrack, playing some shit that Mickey knew was probably older than the city itself and didn’t actually fit with the shadiness of it all.

“Feel a bit out of place,” Fergal confessed then, glancing around at the crowds before eyeing the elephants in front of them, his neck craning back to take in the size of them.

“Tell me about it.” Mickey stepped back, pulling the front of his jacket out to give himself a little more space inside, his gun pressing gently into his ribcage as he did so.

~

Ian had never been to the Field Museum; his class had gone once on a field trip in seventh grade, but he hadn’t had the money to afford the entrance fee, so he had stayed at home with Fiona instead, which at the time he thought was way cooler anyways; but now – looking upwards as they strolled into the main hall – he thought he had definitely been wrong about that; the massive glass ceiling was flooded in golden light, and all around him were parts of history – things he had never seen or known before – and Ian found he was momentarily distracted from not just Mickey, but everything.

“Jesus,” he said under his breath, perusing the room, and if he thought he had felt out of place at the lounge with Mickey, he _really_ felt it now – this was a whole other level of class that was so far above him that he felt like he belonged in another universe altogether. There were people everywhere, and Ian was convinced that the combined cost of their clothes alone – the tuxes and the gowns – could buy half of South Side, and that wasn’t even taking into account the diamond baubles and gold shit.

There was a string quartet – an _actual_ fucking string quartet – playing in the centre of the room, and although it wasn’t the music he was used to, it calmed his nerves the smallest bit.

Glancing around, Ian noticed suddenly that there was a dinosaur skeleton looming over a third of the room, and it was massive, clearly one of those long-necked ones he had seen in books and movies when he was a kid – like the little plastic ones Franny and Freddie played with. He eyed it – gazing from the tip of its bony tail to its head that was directly above him – wondering what the Hell it would have looked like with muscles – with skin and eyes – and Ian kind of wished he could have seen that.

At the other side of the room was a raised platform, on top of which were two huge, stuffed elephants, pressed together in a closeness that seemed almost confrontational. Ian had never seen dinosaur bones before – let alone an actual elephant – and he was in awe for a second – taking in the grey skin and the size of the ears and ivory tusks – before he suddenly noticed Mickey and the stranger standing below them, and his awe was quickly snuffed out by his errant temper.

Ian eyed them – felt his forehead tighten as he watched their body language; the way they looked at each other – and was about to go over and just stand between the two of them, as if he were simply admiring the exhibit, all the while actually shoving a wedge between Mickey and unknown intentions.

“Want to take a look around?” Okulov asked suddenly, breaking him from his trance. Ian had almost forgotten he was there: the black hole in his night sky, sucking the life out of him. “I have some people to talk to.”

“Definitely,” Ian sighed – with relief more than anything – and didn’t even bother saying anything more as he turned away, walking directly out of his grasp and strolling straight towards the elephants in the room, grinning to himself at the irony of that stupid metaphor.

Mickey and the stranger were facing away from him, so Ian stood quietly behind them for a moment, glancing absently at the stranger beside Mickey that he realized had an Irish accent, which caused Ian’s mind to race; he wondered if this was one of the men from New York; just how long Mickey had known him for; just how _well_ Mickey knew him…

Ian felt his fists clench – his knuckles tighten – so he tucked his arms across his chest, trying his best to keep them in control.

“Never seen an elephant before,” he admitted then, and Mickey turned at the sound of his voice – as if he would know it anywhere; his eyes went soft for just a second as they met Ian’s, but then he clearly remembered where he was – who he was with – and he steeled himself. Ian chewed the inside of his lip, staring at Mickey longer than he should have in front of these people, and he knew he shouldn’t look – that this wasn’t the time or the place – but the Irishman was eyeing him as he looked at Mickey, causing Mickey’s eyes to widen for a split second, as if he was telling Ian to back the fuck off.

Ian wasn’t going to.

“You should see them in real life,” the Irishman replied, tearing Ian away from Mickey’s face, and Ian glanced at him – purposefully eyeing him from head to toe – taking the egotistical way in which he made that comment with a grain of salt as his skin went hot.

“Been to the zoo?” Ian asked, and it was intentionally curt and facetious; but Mickey – _his_ Mickey – was right there in front of him, and he didn’t altogether care.

“Thailand, actually,” he said. “Botswana, Zimbabwe…”

Ian felt that heat rise into his face, and Mickey must have seen it.

“Thailand’s great,” Mickey cut in, glancing at the stranger beside him; Ian didn’t know Mickey had been to Thailand, and that feeling of inferiority returned suddenly as he wondered where else Mickey had been that he wasn’t aware of – what places he had seen that Ian probably never would.

“I’m Fergal Maguire.” The Irishman held his hand out, and Ian glanced down at it; he noticed there were small tattoos on his knuckles – little lines and dots that made no sense on the webbed space between his thumb and forefinger –– and it was just another thing he had in common with Mickey. Ian felt his back arch – like hackles on a fucking dog – before he finally untucked his arms and shook the man’s hand without saying a word.

“This is Curtis,” Mickey introduced instead, motioning to Ian as the tension and awkwardness between them rose. “An employee of Shea Sirko’s.”

Ian glanced at Mickey then, feeling his brows pull together; it was the most logical thing to say – the truth, really – but hearing those words come from Mickey’s mouth was a bee sting.

“An employee aye?” Fergal pressed his lips together, nodding in that way people do when they understand the double meaning of something and act like they’re trying not to judge – trying not to act like they’re somehow superior.

Ian thought about lying – of making something up that would make him seem like he wasn’t just the classier equivalent of a prostitute – but then he realized – much to his own delight – that despite his position in life, _he_ had already gotten Mickey Milkovich, and he didn’t need fancy clothes or crime to do it.

“An escort, actually,” Ian admitted bluntly, a smile pulling across his face as Mickey looked at him. “No sense in beating around the bush, right?”

Fergal grinned – one corner of his mouth pulling up – and he actually looked the smallest bit impressed at Ian’s frankness.

“I’m a business partner of Mikhailo’s here.” Fergal reached out, placing his hand on Mickey’s shoulder, and Ian rubbed his hand over his mouth – over his jaw – trying to keep them busy to keep from punching him in his Irish face.

~

Mickey wondered why they didn’t just whip their dicks out and piss on him right there in front of everyone – mark their territory like a couple dogs claiming a fucking tree on the sidewalk. It was annoying mostly, but he had to admit that it was also a little bit endearing – on Ian’s part, at least; he could tell Ian was biting his tongue, trying his best to go toe-to-toe with Fergal – the Irish heavyweight for the New York IFL whose tattoos – Mickey knew – were a body count. Not that Ian was fully aware of that fact, but it was hot nonetheless.

“Fergal’s here on business from New York,” Mickey added, stepping to the side just the smallest bit so that Fergal’s hand fell from his shoulder. Ian glanced down at him, a slight smile playing on his lips that Mickey knew wasn’t from joy – it was the same smile that played on his lips when he was annoyed and maybe about to snap; the same smile that had been on his face before he had broken a guy’s arm – and Mickey felt his instinctive nature kick in, preparing for confrontation that may or may not come.

“A Maguire?” Okulov asked suddenly, stepping through a nearby crowd and joinging them, wrapping his arm absently around Ian’s waist; all at once Mickey was no longer the tree – Ian was – and he _did_ feel like a dog: ears pulling back, hackles rising, that expectation of confrontation only growing.

“Has business with the Milkoviches,” Ian added, glancing at his date, smiling sweetly.

Mickey scratched at his eyebrow, chewed at his lip.

“And you’re Mikhailo, yes?” the Russian asked, turning to Mickey as if they’d never actually met before – as if he were a fucking afterthought. Mickey smiled at him, knowing full well what game they were playing at, _and_ that at the end of the night, he was going to win, Okulov just didn’t know it yet.

“Please,” Mickey said, pulling the lapel of his jacket out far enough that he could grab his silver cigarette holder from his inside pocket – far enough out that Okulov and Ian could see the gun – and sliding one out, placing it between his lips and lighting it right there in the Field Museum. “Call me Mickey.”

“Well, Mickey,” the Russian sighed, squeezing Ian tightly against him for just a second before easing his pressure. “I think I’m going to steal Curtis from you.” Mickey let a huff of air escape his nose in annoyed amusement, smoke escaping his nostrils and curling upward towards the elephants’ dead glass eyes. “To look at the auction lists, I mean…”

_I know what the fuck you meant_ , Mickey thought, and raised his eyebrows; he knew Okulov would know about their night at the lounge, not that he would know it had been a _date_ – that they had made out and fucked – but he would know they had spent time together, and Mickey also knew that that would piss him off.

“By all means.” Mickey let the cigarette hang limp from his lips, smoking wildly as he put on his best poker face and leaned back against the platform behind him; he couldn’t care about this pissing contest anymore – not right now.

Mickey saw Ian’s face sink slightly from the corner of his eye, but he didn’t dare look at him.

“Maybe we’ll talk later?” Okulov put in, turning to Fergal and holding his hand out. “It was nice to meet you.”

Fergal simply nodded, shaking the man’s hand, and Mickey knew that he could feel the tension between the four of them, though he probably had no idea why it was there.

“Nice to see you again, Mr. Milkovich,” Ian said suddenly, putting his own hand out towards Mickey, and Mickey looked at him then, feeling his brows pull together at the tone in which he said it, and it almost made Mickey’s heart break; it sounded like Ian had resigned himself suddenly to the fact that he would always be in second place to business – off in the shadows to be passed around; but the fact that he had called him Mr. Milkovich killed Mickey more, though, and the way Ian’s eyes shifted to Fergal for just a second was like the final nail in his heart’s coffin.

But there was nothing he could do about it now.

“Curtis,” he replied coldly, taking Ian’s hand into his own and shaking it; it was so soft and warm – consuming his own in a massive grip that Mickey missed – and it took everything he fucking had in him to actually let it go.

When he finally did, they turned away, Okulov’s hand finding Ian’s back as he guided him through a crowd and they disappeared from sight. Mickey’s stone façade fell, and he felt the anger rise up inside of him, his face flushing as an attendant came up to him suddenly, leaning awkwardly in towards him as if he was nervous, and it was just not the time.

“Um, I’m sorry, Mr. Milkovich,” he said, swallowing hard. “But, you’re um, not allowed to smoke inside the museum…”

“Fuck off,” Mickey spat, smoke flopping haphazardly between his lips, and Fergal snorted with amusement, crossing his arms over his chest before the attendant just nodded and turned away.

“You’re quite charming, Mickey Milkovich,” Fergal said then, his Irish accent like a weird lullaby as it went up and down over his words, and Mickey eyed him, so pissed at the situation yet wired from Ian’s touch that he was almost tempted to just take Fergal to the bathroom and have his way with him – to feel more in control of _something_ for a few minutes at least; but instead he just shrugged.

“Gunna need at least another pack to get me through this shit.” Mickey didn’t mean the gala, he meant everything else.

As if on cue, Colin came through a crowd suddenly across the room with their father by his side, and Mickey stood, nodding towards them, motioning for Fergal to follow.

Sirko’s table was across the room from where Mickey sat with his party; Ian was over there, wedged awkwardly between the tall Russian and one of Sirko’s teenage daughters, who kept eyeing Ian every now and then with batted eyelashes, trying to make small talk, which Mickey just watched with amusement; he wanted to go save him, but it was still too early in the night for that.

“Where the fuck is your brother?” Terry spat quietly, leaning over the table and throwing daggers at Iggy’s empty chair.

“Tailor fucked up his tux measurements,” Colin admitted, glancing at his phone. “He’s on his way.”

“Christ, I told him not to use that fuckin’…”

“He took care of it, Pops,” Colin interrupted, laughing to himself. “Calm down.”

“I’m gunna win that fuckin’ Mediterranean yacht cruise,” Terry said suddenly, randomly, swallowing an entire whiskey highball in one go. “Too fuckin’ cold here in the winter.”

Mickey snorted, glancing over at the big-ticket items up for auction; he didn’t see anything that really tickled his fancy, so he glanced back across the room to the one thing that did, watching his freckled face pull up in a feigned smile as he talked to the smitten girl beside him.

“Not if I win it first,” Maguire added then, and Terry grinned at him, as if taking that as a challenge – which Mickey knew it was. Fergal eyed him from across the table, raising an eyebrow and smirking at the boyish competitiveness of their respective bosses, and Mickey supposed that boyish competitiveness was something that never quite went away with age as he thought about Ian, Fergal, himself, and Okulov…

“It’s colder in Chicago than it is in New York,” Terry huffed, grabbing the attention of a waiter and ordering another drink. “I need it more than you.”

“You _are_ the one who chose to stay in Chicago,” Mickey put in, sipping at his Scotch, and grinned at his father over the rim of his glass.

“Yea well just be thankful I got you out of that shithole on the South Side,” Terry hissed, “and you didn’t have to grow up there like I did.”

Terry Milkovich could never handle sarcasm or facetiousness – he always had to be serious, and he always had to have the last word.

“Yea, sure thing Pops.” Mickey snorted, glancing away and eyeing Iggy coming suddenly through one of the archways across the room; Mickey raised his hand, giving his brother a small wave, and Iggy spotted him, coming carefully through the crowd, smiling sweetly at the guests as he squeezed behind their chairs and between their bodies, and Mickey wondered absently what these people would say if they knew the things Iggy had done – that they _all_ had done…

“Sorry I’m late, Pops,” he said, pulling out his seat and sliding into it. “Fucking tailor…”

“You embarrass me like this again and I swear to God…” Terry cut in, his hushed voice full of poison, and they all knew that Terry probably would have pistol-whipped if they hadn’t been in public.

“I know,” Iggy sighed, eying his brothers. “I know.” He gave them both a _this-should-be-a-fun-night_ look before Sirko’s wife suddenly strolled up onto the stage in the centre of the room, and the string quartet finally shut up, allowing her to give her annual spiel of thanks and get the money rolling in.

~

Ian watched Mickey and the men he was with from across the room – watched how they sipped their drinks, how they chatted occasionally to each other in low whispers, and how people eyed them with both weariness and admiration – and he wished more than anything that he could be one of them, smiling and drinking as if he, too, were a part of their little criminal club – out in the open with the little criminal he loved – instead of here, warding off the attention of a girl no more than seventeen, digging his nails into the palm of his hand to keep from strangling someone in the middle of the Field Museum.

Terry was bound and determined to win some cruise off the coast of Greece in December, but so was the man beside him, who Ian assumed was Maguire, and despite them both being complete psychopaths, Ian actually managed to smile a few times – along with most others in the room – as Terry yelled out a running commentary on his guest as he tried to outbid him. In the end though – probably due to Maguire’s interest in not scorning his host and business partner – Terry won the fucking thing – for just under fifty-thousand dollars – and everyone clapped as Terry stood, bowing like he were the king of the fucking world, which Ian supposed he thought he was. Ian wondered absently what people would do if they knew where most of that money actually came from...

Mickey glanced in his direction a few times over the course of the auction, looking at him as if he were a complete stranger, but also – Ian thought – as if he were maybe the smallest bit sorry. Mostly though, Mickey just laughed with the men at his table, and Ian watched with growing frustration as Fergal Maguire eyed his man, every casual glance making Ian shift subconsciously closer towards them in his chair – towards Mickey, and further away from Vasily, who still sat with his hand on Ian’s knee beside him, sipping vodka like it was water.

By the time the auction was over, most of the guests were drunk – talking loudly to each other at their private tables or in small parties that were scattered about the room. Okulov was over by the band, glancing absently around to ensure nobody was standing close by as he spoke to Sirko in hushed tones, glancing every now and then towards Ian in a way that made him extremely uncomfortable – made him shift in his seat – and search automatically for Mickey, as if Mickey might notice his discomfort and come save him.

Mickey had left the room with Colin as soon as the last item had been sold, and Ian was unsure where they had gone or if they were even going to come back; it had been at least twenty minutes, and panic was beginning to overtake his feelings of jealousy when the two Milkovich brothers suddenly reappeared across from him, and he breathed a bit easier, even though Mickey didn’t even glance in his direction as they sat back at their table, laughing wildly about something.

Ian rubbed a finger over his tightened lips, chewed at his thumbnail; he hadn’t even moved from his chair since they had first sat down , he just stayed sitting – out of view and beyond notice – toying with the small paper card that had Okulov’s name on it. Ian grabbed it again – needing a distraction – admiring the fancy writing for a second before he held it out, putting the corner of it over the flame of one of the candles at their table and watching it blaze suddenly, the flame burning quickly over the dry paper and black ink before Ian smiled to himself, tossing the last remnants to the floor and stomping on its ashes.

“We’re going out for a smoke,” Okulov said suddenly, and Ian looked up, panic ebbing through him as he put his foot over the card to hide it, hoping he hadn’t seen that little outburst. “Want to join us?”

Ian glanced past him, and noticed that Mickey, Colin, the Maguire’s, and Terry had joined Sirko in the middle of the room, and they were all watching them intently, waiting.

“Sure.” Ian shrugged, as if he didn’t altogether care whether he went or not, but if it meant being with Mickey and that damn Irishman, he wasn’t going to say no.

He got up, following Vasily across the room towards the small party, watching as Mickey turned away with Colin before he reached them, and they all followed, heading through the corridor to a smaller side room that Ian saw was roped off from visitors and the public. Ian glanced around as they hopped over the red velvet rope one by one, worried they may get chastised for going where they weren’t supposed to, but when he took in the sight of the group of people he was with, he seriously doubted that anyone was actually going to stop them – because he was with the Milkoviches from South Side; with Shea Sirko and the Maguire’s; was with Vasily Okulov – and Ian realized all at once that he was like a tiny smooth stone tossed into a raging inferno – one solid bit of cool stability surrounded by chaos that he could either survive, or let shatter him.

The room was clearly in the biological section of the museum, as it was filled with small glass cases of insects, the spotlights above each case the only light in the space beyond the red glow of an exit sign above an emergency side door. Ian realized they were just far enough from the main hall that they could still hear the music, but didn’t have to worry about people nosing their way into whatever business they needed to discuss.

“Here,” Terry said, pulling out a few cigars from his inner pocket and handing one to Maguire – to Fergal and Okulov – before they shifted to the far corner of the room, glancing absently at the youngsters as if they weren’t yet old enough to be privy to their secret business, even though Ian didn’t think Fergal was probably all that much older than Colin.

“Smoke?” Mickey said suddenly, coming up beside him with his eldest brother, and Ian turned at the closeness of that voice, glancing at the silver case Mickey held in his hand, cigarettes lined neatly up inside.

“Thanks.” Ian took one, and was just happy to hear Mickey say something to him – to have him so close beside him again, without prying eyes.

“Enjoying yourself?” Colin asked, leaning over and stealing a smoke from Mickey’s case before he could slide it back into his pocket, and Mickey shot him an annoyed look that made Ian smile to himself.

“Not really.”

“No shit,” Mickey hissed, lighting his cigarette as he eyed the men across the room, his baby blues boring holes into the Russian specifically, and Ian bit his lip to keep from smiling wider. “Where’s Iggy?” Mickey raised an eyebrow at his brother.

“Fuck if I know, bathroom probably.”

“I saw him with a woman,” Ian added, remembering the brunette in the lavender dress that Iggy had been chatting to when his brothers had disappeared.

“Of course.” Mickey leaned over, lighting Ian’s smoke for him as if not even realizing he was doing it, and they eyed each other carefully – hungrily – in the light of the flame, before Mickey glanced away.

Ian looked at him then for what felt like the first time all night; there were no distractions now – nobody looming over them or trying to wedge their way into this special relationship of theirs. Ian liked the way Mickey looked like a movie star – everything about him screaming wealth and success and debonair; but then – as if in contradiction – Mickey’s hand came up – smoke locked firmly under his forefinger as he took a drag – and Ian saw those tattoos that defined him more than a suit or money ever could, and he chuckled quietly to himself, glancing quickly away as he took a drag from his own smoke, but not before Mickey had caught sight of him.

“The fuck you smilin’ at?” he spat, but Ian saw there was a grin on his lips that he was trying really hard not to let show.

“You look fucking beautiful,” he replied simply, glancing back across the room at his date and the others, making sure they were still out of earshot. Mickey eyed him before looking down at the floor, and they were quiet for a moment, smoking in the marble and mahogany room beside the case filled with Asiatic butterflies, the windows to outside casting their reflections around the room.

Terry glanced over at them after a few minutes, tilting his head as if wanting them all to come join him, but Ian knew he didn’t mean him – just his two sons.

“So do you,” Mickey said suddenly, not looking at him as he pinched off the end of his cigarette and strolled to the other side of the room where his father was. Ian felt his face flush, and he felt the heart inside his chest skip a beat as he and Colin watched Mickey go.

“You’re both sickening,” Colin admitted, but smiled, a laugh escaping his lips in a cloud of smoke before he followed his brother across the tiles.

Ian smiled to himself, imagining what it would be like to be just a part of the family before Okulov eyed him then, saying something quietly to Sirko before he turned, coming up to Ian, the smell of cigar hanging over him like a dank fog that Ian almost gagged at – he hated that smell.

“You’re pretty hot, you know that?” he said, and Ian’s face didn’t flush at that, and his heart didn’t skip a beat – it stuttered and almost gave out altogether, probably wishing it would just give up and die instead of having to listen to another accented word come from those lips.

~

Mickey tried really hard to keep his eyes on his father – on Sirko and Maguire – as they went over business; they were talking trade-offs and money laundering and another trip to New York in a few weeks, glancing out the doorway every now and then to ensure nobody walked by that might hear something they weren’t supposed to. _Mickey_ wanted to glance across the room to where Ian stood instead, but he couldn’t – not in front of Terry.

“Shit, we should probably head out,” Maguire announced abruptly, glancing at his watch before putting a hand on Fergal’s shoulder. “Early flight.”

Mickey’s mood shifted a bit, and he felt suddenly happier at the prospect of only having to deal with one errant, horny psycho instead of two, and he smiled smugly at Fergal.

“I lost your business card,” he admitted absently, without the smallest hint of disappointment. Fergal raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth pulling up.

“Lost it?” he asked, clearly doubting that excuse, and looked at Mickey with a bit too much familiarity in front of Terry, but luckily his father was too wrapped up in conversation to notice.

“Tossed it.” Mickey shrugged, and didn’t give a fuck about telling the truth anymore, he didn’t think he’d honestly ever see the Irishman again. Fergal snorted in amusement, crossing his arms over his chest.

“And somehow,” he sighed, “I only like you more...”

Mickey felt a genuine smile playing on his own lips at the obvious compliment, but he squashed it when he saw Ian looking at them.

“Maybe next time…” Mickey confessed, raising an eyebrow as he put his hand out, shaking Fergal’s firmly; and although he doubted there would ever _be_ a next time, Mickey knew his future – his future with _Ian_ – wasn’t set in stone, and Mickey thought that for now, he would never put a night with Fergal Maguire off the table; but he also knew that that would only happen if the love he had for another died inside him, and _that_ would probably never come to pass; because even if things didn’t work out the way they’d planned it, and one day he and Ian drifted so far apart that there was no way back to each other, that love he had would still linger in Ian’s absence, and probably would for a long, long time.

They had been in the corner of the room for almost half an hour, chatting absently about bullshit as Okulov stood with Ian against the opposite wall, discussing something Mickey wished he could hear; Ian feigned a smile every now and then, leaning in a bit closer than was necessary, and Mickey knew he was simply making up for having to watch Fergal do the same to him.

Mickey was getting anxious as the night wore on, but he was also starting to tire out; he felt like he was watching everyone at once – every little move people made, every little word they said – just waiting for the moment everything popped off, which he knew was coming – there was no way you could put these people in a room together and not expect _something_ to happen. As always, Mickey was thankful he was gifted with the foresight to prepare himself when the moment finally came.

“Seems to like that fuckin’ red-head,” Terry observed suddenly, glancing across the room towards Ian, and Mickey refocused in on their conversation, standing a bit straighter, listening a bit more intently. Terry had never acknowledged Ian beyond that one day in his office – that one night in Mickey’s garage – and seeing his father’s attention focus suddenly onto him woke Mickey up at once.

“Yea,” Sirko admitted, his sallow cheeks pulling inwards as he dragged on his cigar. “He’s officially dipped his toes into trafficking.”

Mickey glanced at him then, a feeling of cold ebbing its way outwards from his chest into his extremities as his eyes narrowed in on the old man.

“I thought he already ran drugs?” he asked, trying to seem nonchalant as he dug for answers, even though realization was already beginning to work its way into his soul and his heart started fucking pounding like a jackhammer, thoughts going off inside his brain like fireworks, and it was suddenly all so fucking _loud_. He knew exactly what Sirko had meant, but Mickey had asked anyways, out of something close to a desperate hope that he was wrong.

“Not drugs,” Sirko confirmed, and winked – he _actually_ fucking _winked_ – as if his intent hadn’t already been clear as a fucking bell – as if it wasn’t anything more than business. Mickey’s anger broke through the roof, his fists tightening at his sides as he grasped all at once that Okulov wasn’t just trafficking guns and drugs anymore – he was trafficking people.

Mickey looked immediately – instinctively – towards Ian, feeling his mouth open the smallest bit as Okulov leaned over, placing a small kiss to the side of his freckled temple, and Mickey drew in a deep breath, trying and failing to calm the erratic heartbeat in his chest. Mickey could see now that it wasn’t an obsession – it never had been; Ian was just a sample product to him – a toy to play with while he was in town, to keep him entertained and busy; and Mickey knew that when old toys had served their purpose, you usually threw them away; but sometimes, Mickey thought – rage boiling over inside of him at an indescribable rate – you gave them to somebody new – sometimes for a price.

Mickey glanced around the room, weighing out his options; he knew nothing serious could happen here – it was too public and there were way too many people – but he _could_ adjust the plan just a little; he could make it work with what he had.

Mickey glanced at Colin, who was already looking at him as if he had made the connection long before Mickey had, and his face tightened, lips pressing together as he clearly prepared himself for what he realized all at once was coming next.

“Don’t, Mickey,” he hissed, his eyes going serious as he shook his head, and Terry glanced towards them at the words, then Sirko – everyone looking at Mickey and his brother as his face flushed – his anger grew – and with one more deep breath, none of them mattered anymore.

He was ready.

“I’m sorry Pops,” Mickey said simply, and turned, striding quickly across the room, and it felt almost like he was leaving all his problems behind, even though he knew they were only getting started.

“ _Mickey_!” Colin yelled after him, and Mickey could feel the tension rising around him like static in a storm as Okulov turned at the sound of Colin’s voice. “ _Not here_ _Mick_! _Not like this_!”

It took everything Mickey had within in him to do it.

Ian turned towards him then as Colin’s voice reverberated around the room, his orange brows pulling together as he stared intently at Mickey, who was coming straight for him like a freight train. Mickey didn’t even think about stopping, he just focused on Ian, going forward on nothing more than love and adrenaline, his only concern what was coming in the next second – the next step. Then – as if out of instinct – Ian stepped forward as well – pulling himself from Okulov’s grasp – and walked towards him as if they were magnets – their eyes never leaving the other’s – and with a few more strides they were suddenly together in the middle of the room, everyone staring in confusion, and Mickey was done caring – it was too late for that now. He reached up, sliding his hands around the back of Ian’s neck, and Ian didn’t hesitate in the least as Mickey pulled him down into him, pressing their lips together as the sound of violins echoed faintly around them – their mouths opening to let each other inside – right there amongst the criminals and the butterflies.

Okulov spat something in Russian then that Mickey didn’t quite here, but he pulled his mouth away from Ian’s at once, shifting Ian behind him as the Russian stepped forward from the shadows, and his eyes looked almost black. Mickey reached inside his jacket, pulling out the gun from the holster at his side that had been unclipped for awhile; it had a silencer on the end now – which Mickey had put on not long before this moment when he had disappeared with Colin – and Okulov stopped at the sight of it, glancing at Sirko – at Terry – as if expecting them to stop him – to discipline him like a misbehaving child.

“ _MICKEY!”_ Colin yelled again, nearly knocking over a glass case of preserved chrysalides as he came towards them, his hands up, and Mickey chambered a round, refocusing on his brother.

“Just stay there, Colin,” he said, and despite his decision, it still pained him. Ian pressed gently into him from behind, as if subconsciously telling him to be careful – to think about what he was doing – but also that he was there, and he had his back no matter what.

“Mickey I swear to fucking God,” their father hissed then, tone so full of poison that Mickey probably would have flinched if he hadn’t been so used to hearing it – if he had been someone else. Terry stepped forward then, too, and Mickey shifted the gun, aiming it towards him, just so they knew he wasn’t kidding. Shea Sirko didn’t move at all, he just eyed them from there in the far, darkened corner of the room, and Mickey noticed that his face wasn’t one of surprise, but feigned amusement – Mickey was sure the old fuck was never surprised by anything anymore.

“Yea, I’m gay, Pops,” Mickey admitted bluntly, and actually smiled as the words left his lips; he had no idea where it came from or why he even had to say it, but he felt like he did – for Ian’s sake as much as his own, and a wave of relief crashed through him at the admission, as if a tsunami was receding, its destruction finished as it sunk back into the sea. “And we’re going now,” he added, just to drive the nail home.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Okulov put in then and took a step towards them, so Mickey once again shifted the gun back, aiming it at that smug Russian face and feeling ridiculously outnumbered as he did so, but somehow not the least bit afraid.

There was a sudden shift behind Mickey then as Ian stepped out and around him, and he barely had time to register Ian’s fist swinging over his head as he threw a hail Mary into that smug Russian face, connecting so perfectly onto his brow bone that Okulov stumbled backwards, tripping over one of the cases and falling onto the ground. Ian was on him at once, his white knuckles hammering into his face as Mickey tried his best to eye everyone in the room at once, scanning his Glock back and forth to ensure nobody did anything stupid.

“Curtis!” he called, trying to get his attention, but Ian didn’t stop – he was too far gone now. Okulov was trying to reach up and grab onto Ian’s arms to stop him, but he was too dazed to make much of an effort, only his right hand coming up and grabbing at Ian’s jacket as Ian wrapped his left hand around Vasily’s throat, holding him in place.

“You don’t,” Ian hissed, punching him again as blood started to spill from a cut on his brow bone. “Get to.” Another hit. “Tell me what to fucking do anymore.”

Mickey had to get him up and get him moving, but he couldn’t look away from the others, it was too risky – he couldn’t reach out and pull Ian off; he knew he had to call his name again, but _Curtis_ wasn’t going to work – that’s not who he was and that would never be enough to stop him. Mickey considered calling out his real name for only a second, in front of everyone, but that was way, way worse.

But then he remembered.

“ _BABY!_ ” Mickey yelled, so loud this time that he was sure people in the main hall probably heard him over the violins, but he didn’t care. Ian snapped his head around at that – suddenly broken from his trance – and glanced up at him, his fist still in the air as if anticipating yet another punch. “Let’s go.” Mickey looked at him for only a second, their blazing eyes meeting intensely before Ian came suddenly back down to earth, standing up and retaking his place behind Mickey at once.

Everyone was looking at Ian – at Okulov bleeding on the ground – and Colin’s eyes widened the smallest bit, as if the severity of the whole situation had just hit him like a ton of bricks. Mickey felt the same feeling enter into his bones as he watched his brother, and it was really time to go.

“Back up, babe,” he said then, reaching his free hand around to feel Ian – make sure he was still there even though he knew he was – before pushing him slowly backwards towards the wall. “Back up towards the exit.”

“I’m here,” Ian said then, his voice trembling but sure, and he reached down, intertwining his hand with Mickey’s as they both stepped blindly back, shifting themselves along the wall towards the exit.

“You traitorous little faggot,” Terry hissed then, so quiet, but Mickey still heard it – everyone did – and despite expecting nothing less, it was still like a punch to the gut. Ian squeezed his hand, as if reassuring him at those words – that it was okay – and Mickey breathed, keeping himself steady, steady.

“Mick, _please_ ,” Colin begged suddenly, and Mickey looked towards him, seeing the tension cross his face as his eyes softened; it was okay hurting the rest of them, Mickey thought, but not Colin – not like he knew he was going to have to; because Colin would never give up on him, not even now – not even when the love he had for Ian outshone the love he had for his family, and he was willing to risk it all.

“I’m sorry,” Mickey whispered, just as Colin took another step towards them, and Mickey did what he knew he had to do.

He closed his eyes for a split second, taking a single breath before he pulled the trigger.

~

Ian realized that there wasn’t really even a sound – just the brief popping of air and release, and then Colin was on the floor, his leg gone out from under him, blood pouring out around his thigh in a pool just like Mickey’s had all those days ago. Ian didn’t even have time to process his shock or disbelief at what had just happened – what was _still_ happening – before he and Mickey basically fell out of the exit, suddenly enshrouded in the dim glow of gala lights in the cooling air of the night.

Mickey was pulling him towards the front of the building, and Ian kept glancing back out of instinct to see if anyone would follow, but Mickey didn’t look back at all – he only looked forward – sliding his gun back out of sight as he dragged Ian down the red carpet on the front steps, holding his hand in a death-grip as they past the last handful of reporters that still remained and the few cops that stood as security. Ian’s heart was hammering in his chest as he eyed them all – his palm slick and sweaty in Mickey’s as they glanced back at them curiously, watching them bound suspiciously down the stairs. Ian was sure they were going to get arrested right then and there – that those officers would come forward with guns drawn – but nothing happened; nobody came after them in the darkness; and despite the shock, Ian actually fucking smiled as they reached Mickey’s car and Mickey finally let go of his hand, striding quickly to the other side and climbing into the driver’s seat. Ian slid in beside him – where he knew he belonged – before Mickey shot him a look – one single glance that held his eyes for a moment, and Ian saw inside those eyes all that Mickey was willing to risk – and Ian leaned forward at once, kissing him hard with his tongue before Mickey pulled back, throwing her into gear, and fucking driving like their lives depended on it, which Ian knew they probably did.

Mickey tore through the streets, way faster than he ever had, and Ian just watched the road in front of them, his heart still beating wildly, pumping adrenaline into every atom of his being as he tried his best to breathe as the minutes slowly passed.

“What the fuck do we do now, Mickey?” he asked finally, the sound of his own voice sounding loud and unfamiliar in the small space. There was blood coursing through his ears, and despite the rushing sound like crashing waves, he still managed to think of Colin, and how the fuck they could betray him like that. “What the fuck do we do about Colin?”

“It’ll be okay,” Mickey answered, so calmly that Ian turned towards him, listening to the engine rumble as Mickey pressed expertly on the gas, tapped the brake, and his right hand was no longer in his lap like it always was, but on the gear-shift, as if ready to throw it into park in a split second.

“This isn’t okay, Mickey.” Ian reached out anyways, basically peeling Mickey’s fingers off the gear-shift so he could hold him – touch his fingers like he had missed doing. Mickey squeezed his hand the smallest bit, letting it settle into Ian’s grip as Ian thumbed worriedly over his knuckles. “My heart is beating so fuckin’…”

The phone rang suddenly, cutting him off, and it was so loud and immediate that Ian actually jumped, glancing at the side mirrors out of habit before he saw Colin’s name appear up on the dash screen. Ian eyed Mickey curiously, wondering if he was even going to answer it – what the fuck he would say if he did. Mickey’s brows pulled together at the sight of his brother’s name, but he reached out despite everything and hit the accept button.

“Yea?” was all he said, and Ian shot him an anxious look, felt his chest tighten.

“You almost shot my fuckin’ dick off,” Colin hissed, and to Ian’s surprise, he didn’t sound all that upset.

Mickey actually smiled then, a huff of air escaping his nose in amusement.

“Hey, we did agree on the leg,” he confessed, glancing at Ian, raising his eyebrows in an _I-told-you-so_ sort of way before winking nonchalantly, and Ian just felt confused; his own brows pulled together as he took in Mickey’s reaction, thought for a second, the gears turning inside his head for only a moment before the adrenaline suddenly gave way to understanding, and his mouth dropped open.

“ _This was your fucking plan_?” he barked, letting go of Mickey’s hand at once and punching him so hard in the arm that the car actually veered off centre. Colin snorted a bit from the other end.

“I couldn’t tell you,” Mickey admitted, sliding the Audi into the passing lane on the freeway, and Ian realized absently that he had no fucking idea where they were going.

“You couldn’t have told me fucking _anything_!?” Ian was getting angry – the frustration within him building – but somewhere inside him there was also relief.

“Nobody could know, Ian,” Mickey said, and reached out, trying to take Ian’s hand back; but Ian pulled it away in annoyance, glancing away out the window.

“Do you know what it’s like being in the dark like that?” Ian spat, and those stupid tears were threatening again – burning the backs of his eyes; he had been so fucking worried – so unsure of just how long he would have to wait alone – to be in this life he hated…

“Yes.” Mickey reached out again, grabbing Ian’s hand and squeezing it so hard that Ian looked at him. “Yes I fucking know, Ian.”

 _Of course he knows_ , Ian thought absently, and knew then that it maybe hadn’t been all that easy for Mickey, either, despite how calm he looked on the outside.

“We had to make a scene in front of everyone,” Colin added suddenly, and Ian had forgotten he was on the other end, listening. “So everyone would think Mickey was working alone, that the family was against it…

“And that they tried to stop me,” Mickey finished, and he was almost pleading now. “It was the only way.”

Ian looked at him, chewing the inside of his lip as he glanced over his face – his body – and he realized that beyond the frustration of being alone in the dark water, was the overwhelming calm of being back with Mickey again, and he understood everything.

“Come here,” he breathed, leaning across the car and grabbing Mickey’s face, kissing him right there in the middle of traffic, causing him to swerve. Mickey laughed against his lips, and a couple of nearby cars honked their horns before Ian finally let go and sat back. “Continuously being impressed by the Brothers Milkovich…” he observed, smiling at Mickey’s beautiful, complicated face.

“Speaking of,” Mickey put in, and it was quickly back to business. “Iggy?”

“Yea he’s here,” Colin said. “Taking me home to the doc.”

“That went smoother than I thought it would!” Iggy yelled then from the driver’s seat on the other end, causing Ian to shoot another surprised look at his boyfriend.

“Iggy knew, too?”

“Of course I fucking knew,” he spat, snorting a little. “I just came a little late to the party – no pun intended.”

Ian leaned back in his seat, shaking his head and laughing to himself as his eyes closed.

 _The Brothers Milkovich, indeed_.

“How’s Pops?” Mickey asked suddenly, and Ian could see the resentment cross his face – the sadness and rejection hidden behind his tough exterior; he could also hear the betrayal in his voice, though Ian wasn’t sure if Mickey felt like he was the betrayer, or the one who had been betrayed.

“Pissed.”

“No shit,” Ian snorted, glancing back out the window. They were heading towards South Side, and Ian’s heart beat a little faster again at the prospect.

“And Sirko? Okulov?”

“Equally as pissed,” Colin answered, but he sounded relieved by that fact. “It went well, Mick. Step one is done.”

“And what’s step two?” Ian inquired, suddenly feeling like he was just one of the brothers, fitting easily into this insane conversation as if he had always been there, or at least was always meant to be.

“Home,” Mickey replied simply, smiling at him as he took the exit into South Side.

They pulled up to an abandoned lot only a handful of blocks from South Wallace, and Mickey hopped out of the car at the front gates, unlocking the chains before driving in, dust kicking up behind them. There was a worn-down parking garage near the back of the lot, and Ian glanced around in the darkness as Mickey pulled up into it – at the crumbling cement pillars and the rusted support beams – wondering just what the Hell they were doing there.

Once on the second level, Mickey parked the Audi in a dusty old space before hopping out, leaning down to glance in at Ian.

“Come on,” he said, then slammed his door shut, so Ian followed.

“What are you doing?” he asked, watching as Mickey strolled across the garage in his tuxedo to what Ian saw was a car, resting in the corner under a grimy beige cover covered in oil stains.

“Getting our new ride.” Mickey pulled the cover off in a cloud of dust, and underneath was some black car that Ian couldn’t really see in the shadows, but it definitely wasn’t an Audi, and it definitely wasn’t new. “My car is the first thing they’ll look for,” Mickey admitted, and it almost sounded like there was a bit of sadness in his voice at the prospect of leaving his baby behind.

“What can I do?”

“Put this over the Audi,” Mickey replied, tossing him the cover, and Ian complied, glancing down at the matte black paint one more time before he slid the cover over it there in the night and the quiet, hiding it from sight.

Mickey slid awkwardly into the driver’s seat of the new car – as if he wasn’t used to the confinement – and started the engine, the whole space flooding suddenly with light from the high-beams, causing Ian to squint as he strolled to the passenger side and got in.

“So?” he asked, glancing around the faded, shabby interior, feeling suddenly like they were finally in a car that suited him. “What do we do now?”

“I told you,” Mickey sighed, glancing at him with a raised eyebrow before shifting into gear and pulling out. “We’re going home.”

Home apparently was South Side; but more specifically, home was an old, two-story brick house on a corner lot in the middle of the South Side suburbs. Ian stood at the bottom of its front steps glancing up at the weathered façade; he thought that it reminded him a bit of the Milkovich place as he looked around – noticing that the house beside it was vacant and boarded up – before realizing suddenly that they were only a few streets over from the his own home, where he knew Lip would probably be now, with Debbie, Carl – everyone else he loved – and it took everything he had within him not to turn and run towards them.

“Whose house is this?” he asked instead, wondering why the fuck they were there, and looked at Mickey, who just smiled in the orange glow of the streetlamp as he pulled a pair of keys out from the backpack he had removed from the trunk of the new car, jingling them noisily in the air.

“ _Yours?_ ” Ian felt his eyebrows shoot up and his face go hot as he looked back at the house. “Since when did you have a house in South Side?”

“Since a week after I met you.” Mickey went up the stairs without saying anything else, and Ian stared after him for a moment – his heart constricting as he mulled over that comment – before following him up through the front door.

It was nothing fancy of course – nothing that Ian and Mickey were really accustomed to anymore – but even though Ian couldn’t see much in the dim light streaming in through the windows, he still thought it was better somehow, as if it felt like a proper home and not just a _place_ , probably because it felt like South Side.

They stood in blackness for a moment before Mickey found a light-switch somewhere in the living room and flicked it on, the place suddenly coming to life. Ian was standing in a small space at the front, and Mickey was off to his left in the living room, which had furniture and a fireplace that seemed like it might actually still function.

“Head upstairs,” Mickey said casually, motioning to the staircase on Ian’s right that headed straight up in front of him to the second floor.

“You coming?” he asked, realizing suddenly that they were _actually_ alone – they were together _and_ alone – but despite being happy at that fact, he was still a bit nervous to be away from him, especially now.

“In a second.” Mickey smiled at him knowingly, undoing the bowtie at his neck, and Ian just nodded, heading quietly up the wooden steps.

At the top was one long hallway that extended down the length of the house, with what Ian assumed was a linen closet in the wall at the very end. There were four doorways – two on either side of the hall – and all but one of them was closed, and Ian could tell by the way the light reflected off the mirror and the tile inside that it was a bathroom. A light was on in the room across from it – a warm glow escaping out from the crack under the door – and Ian hesitated a moment before going forward, cracking it open and peering inside to make sure nobody was there out of instinct before stepping in.

It was a bedroom, and all of Ian’s things were on the floor in the corner beside the double bed – his boxes of books, his clothes, his backpack – and there on a bedside table were his two phones – the one from the Fairy Tale conveniently missing, and Ian didn’t care in the least.

Mickey came up the stairs then, a few creaks escaping the old floorboards as he strolled in behind him, tossing his jacket and his bowtie onto the dresser beside them.

“How the fuck did you get my stuff here?” Ian asked, glancing at him; it had all been in place when he had left with Okulov only a few hours before…

“Iggy.”

“ _Iggy_?” Ian looked back at his stuff, his brows pulling together. “Is that why he was late?”

“You actually think Iggy would go to a bad tailor?” Mickey snorted, sitting down onto the end of the bed. “The guy’s more of a fashion freak than I am.”

Ian thought back to when he had seen Iggy coming through the crowd at the museum earlier in the night, smiling sweetly as he passed between strangers, and he felt suddenly like crying, because it hadn’t been just Mickey, but all of them – all of them had done this together, to get them out, and fuck the consequences.

He eyed Mickey there in the lamplight – his skin more like porcelain than his own would ever be; his eyes like sapphires in the muted light – and Ian was at once filled with so many emotions that he lost track of them all as they surged together in his chest, combining into one overwhelming feeling of what he imagined was nothing more than pure, raw, unadulterated need, and it was about goddamn time, too.

“Take your fucking clothes off,” he spat, reaching up and pulling the bowtie from around his neck in a single go and throwing it down onto the floor. Mickey looked up at him and stood, a smile playing on the edge of his lips that made Ian’s skin hot, but he didn’t need any more prompting, either – it had been a week and a half since they had slept together – since Mickey sat up over him like a porn star – and although that wasn’t a lot of time to most people, to Ian, it may as well have been decades of fucking torture.

Ian went forward, grabbing onto either side of Mickey’s white shirt and not even bothering with the buttons as he pulled as hard as he could, those very buttons snapping off and scattering across the floor as Mickey’s bare chest came suddenly into view, and Ian’s mouth was on it at once. He bit at his nipples, sucked on the skin above his own initials, moved his lips up over his neck and his jaw towards his mouth, trailing wet kisses over his rippling skin as Mickey’s eyes closed, his head falling back as a small whimper escaped his lips in pleasure.

Ian wanted more than anything to just give in and fuck him right then and there, but he had been planning this moment for days now – for hours on end – and Mickey wasn’t getting off that easy, especially not after tonight.

“Look at me,” Ian panted, his breath hot against Mickey’s skin as he reached out, grabbing Mickey’s face hard in his hands and forcing him to look into his eyes. “If you ever fucking do this to me again Mick,” he hissed, pressing a wet kiss to his lips. “I swear to God...” Ian rubbed his open mouth over Mickey’s, their breath mixing together. “I will fucking kill you myself.”

“I’m sorry,” Mickey sighed, his eyes closing again as Ian bit at his bottom lip, sucked it between his own.

“Not yet you’re not.” Ian bent down then, wrapping his arms under Mickey’s ass – firmly around his thighs – before lifting him suddenly, kissing him right there in the air as he held him for a second before stepping forward and tossing him back onto the bed – hard – with a thud that reverberated throughout the room. “I said take your fucking clothes off,” he hissed, and he could feel his dick in his pants, hard and already dripping.

Mickey just stared at him, and he didn’t smile – he was too far gone for smiling, just like Ian was – he just obeyed, sitting up onto his knees and undoing his buckle, taking the rest of his clothes off quickly until he was completely naked in the centre of the bed, kneeling as he looked back at Ian, who noticed that Mickey’s own cock was so hard it was pointing directly at him, and Jesus Christ he was beautiful.

Ian took his jacket off slowly, and then his shirt – purposefully going at a snail’s pace as Mickey eyed him, reaching down and stroking himself as he watched, squeezing a clear string of precum out onto the bed. If Mickey thought this was going to be quick though, it wasn’t; Ian wanted him to feel the ache of waiting, just like he had been feeling for days now.

“Come here,” Mickey whispered, once Ian was finally fully naked, but Ian just stood there staring back at him, and shook his head.

“Get to the end of the bed.” Ian wasn’t asking anymore; all he had wanted since the beginning was to be in control of Mickey like he was good at, and now he was going to do it better – harder – than he ever had before.

Mickey didn’t say anything, he just did as he was told, and Ian knew that he was enjoying this just as much as he was, because he enjoyed being taken care of – enjoyed being taken care of by Ian and Ian alone.

Mickey shuffled to the end, kneeling so close to the edge that he almost fell off, but Ian wouldn’t let that happen – he was there in front of him at once, kissing him hard and holding him firm, his tongue finding Mickey’s once more as he twisted his fingers into his hair, the combination of the gel and the black strands delighting him with their feeling of slickness.

“I want you inside me,” Mickey breathed into his mouth, and it was so desperate that it was almost begging. “Fuck I’ve missed you inside me.” Ian was already well past being hard – precum dripping steadily from his slit as he tasted Mickey – but at those words he felt a tightness inside of him – his muscles warm and contract – and he didn’t want to wait anymore, either.

“Lay down.”

Mickey fell backwards immediately, shifting himself up towards the top of the bed, but Ian reached out before he could get there, grabbing onto his legs and pulling him harshly back to the end – the blankets bunching down under his weight – so Ian could stand there and fuck him from behind. Mickey let out a loud breath at the movement, his dick flopping back against his stomach as a large string of precum moistened his belly.

“Fuck, Ian,” Mickey breathed, bringing his head up to watch as Ian spit into his hand – he didn’t know where the lube was right now, and he didn’t give a shit – rubbing it down over his tip, along his veins, his balls pulling up against his body as electricity pulsed through his pelvis as he made himself wet, and he didn’t think he was going to last all that long.

Ian was about to spit directly onto Mickey’s asshole from above and push his way in, when suddenly he wanted more than anything to have Mickey in all the ways he hadn’t yet; so with an abrupt burst of confidence, Ian fell to his knees in front of Mickey, pushing his legs harshly upwards, urging Mickey to hold them there as he grabbed onto Mickey’s ass, spreading him apart so he could put his mouth to the one place he never had.

“ _Ian_!” Mickey spat – nothing but breath – but didn’t put up much more of a fight as Ian’s tongue flicked over his opening, and he sucked wet kisses around it – bit absently at his cheeks – finally touching his lips to it after a minute or two, giving him a soft kiss before pushing his tongue the smallest bit inside, working it around in circular motions as he moved it in and out, slowly, his fingers massaging over his perineum, around his balls…

Ian was sure he was going to blow right there – tasting Mickey in a way he had only ever dreamed about – as Mickey puffed out short little breaths and small little whimpers that made Ian’s blood hot and his nipples harden, and it was the hottest fucking thing Ian had ever done.

“You like that?” he asked, squeezing his ass harshly, pulling it further apart.

“Fuck yea…yea,” Mickey hissed, and his voice was so high-pitched that Ian removed his tongue immediately and stood, needing so much more of him. There was a massive pool of precum on Mickey’s stomach, but Ian saw that he hadn’t been touching his dick, probably because he wouldn’t have lasted five seconds.

“Get on your hands and knees,” he ordered, and Mickey breathed for a moment – his eyes closed as he calmed himself, probably still feeling the echoes of Ian’s tongue inside him – before he obeyed, and turned over, pushing himself up on all fours.

Ian leaned forward, reaching between Mickey’s legs and grabbing his dick, pulling it back towards him and laying a wet kiss to its head, causing Mickey’s arms to give out, and he fell down onto his elbows, ass still up in the air, and Ian thought once more that Mickey should be a fucking porn star; but then again, he didn’t want anyone else getting to touch this – to taste it or have it; because Mickey was his. 

Ian was working his dick from behind, leaning over the end of the bed as he sucked it into his mouth, trailing his tongue from that sensitive spot under his tip, all the way along the underside, licking directly up over his balls and his perineum, right into his asshole again, and then again. Mickey leaned forward suddenly after a few minutes of this, another whine escaping his lips as he punched a fist into the blanket that was bunched up underneath of him.

“Jesus Ian just fucking do it.” Mickey pressed his head into the bed, his breath coming harsher. “I’m gunna cum as soon as you do.”

“Good.” Ian jumped up onto the bed immediately, pressing his dick into Mickey with more force than he meant to, and Mickey let out a _ugh_ as he tried to lean away, but Ian held onto his hips, feeling the tightness of Mickey wrap around him inch by inch, enshrouding him like a warm fucking miracle, and he didn’t think he had much longer left in him either.

Once he was all the way in, Ian stayed there for a moment, letting Mickey adjust to him as Ian closed his eyes to the sensation – the intense pressure enfolding him from head to balls – and he sucked in a breath as he risked a thrust, then another, his precum making them both so wet that he slid in and out with ease, the slick sound of fucking echoing around the room.

“Oh fuck, baby,” Mickey spat, and Ian’s eyes flew open, glancing at Mickey’s face as he looked back towards him, his fists grabbing handfuls of the blanket as he began to rock backwards onto Ian’s dick in the perfect rhythm, and that tightness was there at once – that warmth spreading throughout every cell in his lower half that he had been longing for for days. Ian fell forward then, wrapping his right arm around Mickey’s waist as he pressed himself against his back – put his left hand down onto the bed for support – and pulled Mickey onto him, thrusting so deep that Ian was sure he was going to fucking explode into absolutely nothing.

“Jesus Mickey,” he cried, and the words were just mingled with air and whines and breath. “I’m gunna fuckin’ cum in you.”

“Do it,” Mickey exclaimed, and at the sound of his voice Ian lost it; his eyes closed as he pushed himself all the way in, his chest pressed so hard against Mickey’s back as he held him that he was sure they had finally fused into one, their bodies shaking together as Ian’s dick pulsed inside of him, filling him, and all those vibrations must have hit Mickey in all the right spots, as he moaned one final time.

They stayed like that, breathing heavily for a couple minutes before Ian finally had enough blood in his brain to function again.

“God I fucking love you,” he exhaled, biting the skin on Mickey’s back as he shifted his hips, pulling himself out so he could lean back – sit up on his knees – and once more watch the cum pour out of Mickey’s ass before he realized absently that Mickey hadn’t actually cum yet – he hadn’t even touched his dick. “You didn’t cum, baby…” he said, and the word wasn’t a joke between them anymore, it was everything beautiful and hot, and he loved saying it almost as much as he loved Mickey himself.

“I wanted you to have me first.” Mickey flopped onto his back, a massive wet stain on the blanket beneath him where his dick had obviously just leaked precum the entire time Ian had had him.

“I’m gunna make you cum so hard,” Ian admitted then, smiling down at him before hopping off the bed and heading directly for the bathroom to wipe himself off.

~

Ian returned a few moments later with a wet cloth he had obviously found in the bathroom cupboard; climbing back up onto the bed, he lifted Mickey’s legs absently so he could wipe at him – clean him – and Mickey felt his face flush and his body go hot – not from embarrassment at the action, but from how fucking turned on he was by everything. Ian was back in control again, and Mickey was rejoicing in not only his own ability to let go, but the pleasure Ian always got from being in control of him, which Mickey thought was probably only a little bit less than the pleasure he got from the actual fucking itself.

He had wanted so badly to cum when Ian was inside of him; he almost did – without even using his hands, just like Ian had made him cum that night in the van; but Mickey had held on, enjoying the noises Ian made instead – the things he said in the heat of the moment – closing his eyes to the world and getting lost in his presence, and Mickey thought suddenly that he _finally_ understood how Ian felt when he got lost inside the music – because Ian _was_ his music, consuming him entirely.

“You’re so hot,” Ian whispered then, pulling Mickey from his imaginings as he chucked the cloth onto the floor and climbed his way up over top of him. Mickey lifted his head and kissed him, his hands wrapping around Ian’s neck gently before he slid them over across his shoulders, down his chest, up under his armpits and down his sides.

“Fuck I missed you,” he admitted, looking up at him, and Ian’s eyes were so soft – so beautiful – that Mickey had the ridiculous, sudden urge to cry right there in their new bedroom, just because he fucking needed him. Instead, he looked away, glancing down over Ian’s body in the lamplight, fingering the eagle tattooed on his hardened ribs. “Army,” he sighed, and smiled to himself.

“What?” Ian whispered, a breathy chuckle escaping his lips. “Did you just call me Army?”

Mickey bit his lip.

“Maybe.”

“I’ll show you Army.” With that, Ian pushed himself up over Mickey, placing his hands squarely on either side of him on the mattress, using his legs to spread Mickey’s apart a little so that he could put both of his own straight between them, and then all of a sudden, Ian started doing push-ups right there above him, raising himself up, then down, counting out loud as he went.

“How many do you think you’ll get to?” Mickey asked, staring directly into Ian’s eyes as he pushed himself back up, then down again, except this time on the descent, he laid a kiss on Mickey’s neck.

“Fuck numbers,” Ian breathed, straightening himself once more, then placing a kiss onto Mickey’s forehead this time on the down-fall.

Mickey closed his eyes, and Ian stayed like that for a minute or two, doing his own intimate set of push-ups, placing a kiss to a different part of his body every time he came back down, their stomachs pressing lightly together, and Mickey felt his dick twitch – get harder at the beauty of it all – so when Ian came down the next time, Mickey pushed his head up, capturing Ian’s mouth in his at once, flicking his tongue inside and pulling him down into him, their bodies moist and hot from the exertion of exercise and fucking.

“Let me make you cum,” Ian panted into his mouth, and Mickey just nodded, his head falling back as Ian trailed kisses down his neck; dragged his tongue along his skin, leaving a cool trail of spit that made Mickey’s flesh ripple; sucked on his nipples; bit the softness of his stomach – then the hair below his navel; before finally grabbing onto his dick and sliding directly into his mouth, causing Mickey’s back to arch upwards violently, biting into his own lip so hard he tasted blood.

Mickey reached up, grabbing one of the pillows above him and shoving it under his head so he could look at Ian as he worked, his head bobbing up and down so fast that his orange hair was starting to escape the gel and fall over his forehead.

“So fuckin’ hot,” Mickey exhaled, and Ian’s eyes met his. Mickey could feel the pressure building inside him already – so close at hand from their first fuck – and his muscles started to clench faster, harder, his hips thrusting upwards the smallest bit into Ian’s mouth – into his throat – and it was all so wet that the sound was almost deafening.

Ian pulled off suddenly before Mickey could blow, bringing himself back up over him to kiss him once more – just a quick bite of his lips that tasted like salt – before he suddenly had his hands on Mickey’s face, and he looked down at him then, studying him carefully as his breath came hard – as if considering whether to do what he wanted to; after a moment, he clearly decided to just go for it, because he took his forefinger then and slid it in between Mickey’s lips, shoving it in so far that Mickey almost gagged, and Mickey knew _exactly_ what he was doing.

Mickey sucked on it, making it wet before Ian slipped his middle finger in as well, gently pushing them in and out of Mickey’s mouth, Ian’s own dropping open slightly in pleasure as they went too far suddenly and Mickey _did_ gag, which only made his dick harder and precum leak onto Ian’s thigh as it rubbed absently against his tip, and Mickey needed it now.

“Make me cum,” he begged, sucking on Ian’s fingers one final time, making them nearly drip in spit, and Ian sat back at once, shouldering his way back between Mickey’s thighs, taking his dick into his mouth as he pushed those soaking fingers against Mickey’s asshole. “Oh shit, Ian,” he whined, his eyes closing again as he focused on the combined pressure of Ian’s mouth around his cock and his fingers slowly, gently, pushing into him – bit by bit –until he expanded, and Ian was suddenly there – right there where he needed to be – and the feeling was indescribable.

“You’re so fucking tight Mickey,” Ian breathed, his breath tickling the tip of Mickey’s dick, wet with spit and precum, making goose-bumps rise over his flesh again as Ian massaged his prostate. Mickey couldn’t see what he was doing – if he was going in circles or just rubbing it – but he didn’t fucking care; he was going to cum soon, and it was going to nearly kill him, he knew it.

“Ian,” he breathed, his eyes flying open, meeting Ian’s there in the shadows, and Ian already knew.

“Yea?” he asked, and Mickey just nodded, the warmth spreading throughout him as Ian suddenly wrapped his lips around the tip of his dick, sucking his cheeks inwards as he bobbed quickly over his head, and Mickey could feel his tongue inside his mouth, twirling around him – his fingers in his ass, hitting his prostate with the perfect pace and pressure – and the dam inside of him didn’t just burst – it fucking exploded.

“ _Oh fuucck_ ,” he cried, his eyes pressing closed so hard that all he saw was searing white and stars as pleasure detonated inside him, his thighs tightening – shaking – around Ian’s head as he came, and Ian took every last drop down his throat like a fucking porn star.

As soon as his body sopped trembling and Ian had slid his fingers out of him – had pulled his mouth off of his sensitive cock – Mickey sat up, grabbing Ian’s face and pulling him into him there in the middle of the bed, kissing him so hard that there _was_ blood; _and_ cum – salt and iron mingling together – and Mickey realized that that taste – the combination of those two things – was uniquely theirs, and defined them more than anything.

“Come here,” Ian whispered, shuffling around to the head of the bed where he sat up against the headboard, and Mickey crawled into his lap automatically, sitting back on Ian’s thighs as their softening dicks pressed together, and Mickey felt more peace there against his skin than he ever had anywhere else in his life.

Ian wrapped his arms around Mickey’s waist, just holding him there as he straddled him, kissing him deeply; then softly; then faster; then not at all as they looked at each other, their foreheads pressed together as breath came hot against their faces, and Mickey could swear there had been so much more than just a week and a half between them.

“You’re pretty demanding sometimes,” he joked then, smiling against Ian’s lips as he kissed him again, once, twice, his fingers tracing outlines of nothing at all on the skin between Ian’s shoulder blades – up the back of his neck and down again.

“I can be.” Ian nudged Mickey’s nose with his own, causing Mickey to look directly into his eyes as Ian stared back at him. “Don’t ever leave me again,” Ian whispered then, so quiet that even so close to his mouth – to his words – Mickey almost struggled to hear it; but he heard it, and his heart stuttered, the warmth and blood leaving the lower half of his body, radiating upwards into his flushing chest and face.

“I won’t.”

“Promise me,” Ian said, his hands moving up Mickey’s spine then, over his shoulders to his face, where Ian held him – held his gaze – his eyes seeking answers.

“I promise, Ian,” Mickey said, and when he made a promise, he fucking meant it. “I won’t leave you.”

Ian smiled at that, his lips slowly pulling upwards as he wrapped his arms back around Mickey’s waist, quickly flipping him over onto his side and shuffling down beside him so they lay together, face-to-face, in the warmth of this tiny, unfamiliar space.

“Good.”

Mickey looked at him – he did nothing more than look at him for a long while – their hands coming up and tracing over the skin of each other’s faces – their eyelids, their lips, their noses – just taking in the sight of everything they had missed, and had maybe taken for granted.

“Sorry we’re not somewhere else,” Mickey said suddenly, feeling bad for the abrupt, lackluster change of scenery as he looked at his porcelain boy, wishing he could have gotten them further away for now. “Sorry we’re not somewhere nicer. Or anywhere else, really…”

A small huff of air escaped Ian’s nose at that, and Ian held his gaze, a look crossing over his face that was just as soft as it was serious as his thumb came up, pulling down softly on Mickey’s lower lip.

“Mick,” he whispered, and placed a small kiss to the tip of Mickey’s nose. “I could be _anywhere_ and it wouldn’t matter; as long as I’m _somewhere_ with you.”

~

Ian glanced around the room as Mickey slept beside him, his head resting on his chest as soft breaths escaped across his skin, tickling his auburn hair. The room was small, with just enough space for the bed they were on, two side-tables that nearly grazed the walls on either side of them, and the dresser across from the end of the bed. It may not have been the Ritz, but that was okay, Ian thought, because the Ritz reminded him of Okulov – money and expensive things reminded him of his life in the business that he realized with a sudden trembling breath he was no longer a part of; but _this_ place – _this_ place reminded him of home – _Mickey_ reminded him of home…

Ian smiled to himself, reaching out and turning off the lamp beside him, and he was suddenly encased in darkness, only the faint orange glow of a nearby streetlight escaping between the slats of the blinds, and despite the shadows, Ian felt calm and at peace, glancing around once more before he looked down at Mickey’s pale face, realizing all at once that they had made it – they had found their lighthouse.

For the first time in a long time, Ian fell asleep to the sound of silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Sorry if I made you blush! (Not really though)  
> -I love this chapter. I think it's my personal favourite! I have no idea why, it just is!  
> -Yes, Mickey's diamond cuff links and Rolex are somewhere on the floor, too - he doesn't care.  
> -Listened to Won't Let You Go by Ben Cocks on repeat while writing the end scene. It made me cry a little!  
> -See you in a week or so!


	11. Bliss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian and Mickey get a small taste of domesticity on the outside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a close, warm chapter, with no big adventures! I thought it was time for a bit of family and home for our boys.  
> As always, please feel free to follow me on Twitter @WhatsaMattavich for weekly updates, excerpts, whatever!  
> Thank you - as always - for being here. I appreciate you so much.

No phones awoke him this time – no bad dreams or feelings of anxiety, either; for the first time in months – maybe years – Ian awoke simply from being rested, calm, and actually content to open his eyes and see the life laid out before him.

Daylight was flooding in through the slats in the blinds above them, casting sharp white lines across the bed, across the hardwood floor, across Mickey’s skin beside him, and Ian looked at him then – sound asleep on his stomach, face turned away as he hugged his pillow. He grinned to himself at the sight – at how calm Mickey looked – and pushed himself up onto one elbow so he could see him better. There were a couple small freckles dotted across his back and arms; the tip of his left ear looked extra pink in an errant sunbeam; and there was a dusting of soft, blonde hair all over his body, catching the morning light. Ian eyed the way that hair was fairly sparse at his shoulders – between the blades – but became thicker and more prominent down his spine, becoming a downy fuzz at his sacrum and his cheeks – the tops of which were _just_ peeking out above the blanket.

Ian couldn’t help it, he leaned forward and placed a kiss right there at the very base of his spine, feeling the way those blonde hairs tickled his lips as he placed another kiss slightly higher, working his way slowly – gently – upwards between the vertebrae, the warmth of him in dreaming causing Ian to flush.

A low _mmm_ escaped Mickey’s mouth as Ian reached his shoulder blades, and he bit gently at his skin in return, peering up over the side of Mickey’s head to see his face, and he pressed his lips together to keep from bursting internally when he saw that Mickey was smiling, his eyes still closed to the world.

“Morning,” Ian whispered, feeling suddenly like he wanted to say that to Mickey every day for the rest of his life, and leaned over, placing another kiss to the curve of his jaw, then his earlobe, nibbling it gently for a second before a tiny chuckle rumbled from Mickey’s chest, the vibration setting Ian’s skin on fire.

“Hey,” Mickey breathed, rolling slightly onto his side so he could reach back behind him, cup Ian’s head in his hand, and pull it down to his neck, where Ian nuzzled himself in, smelling his skin – breathing in that scent that had kept him alive – feeling the pulse beat beneath his lips, and he wanted him – badly; he was already slightly hard from just the supple sight of Mickey asleep beside him in the daylight – slightly hard from the knowledge that they were out in every way, and had taken a single step towards a future – but now he was turned on completely, pushing himself up against Mickey under the blanket, feeling his warm skin and that fuzz against his thighs – against his sensitive head and his veins – all the while Mickey combing his fingers through the hair at the back of his head, causing his hairs to rise. “You’re so subtle,” Mickey whispered jokingly, but clearly wasn’t going to say no, as he pushed himself backwards, his ass pressing hard against Ian, who sucked in a breath at the sudden sensation.

“Fuck, where’s the lube?” he spat, biting Mickey’s stubbled jaw before glancing quickly around the room, searching desperately.

“In the bathroom cupboard.”

“Ugh, seriously?” Ian groaned, considering for just a second to forego it all together and make do with morning spit, before cringing at the idea and flinging himself out of bed. “Why so far?”

“I like making you work for it…” Mickey admitted, a half-grin spreading across his face, and Ian rolled his eyes as he reached the bathroom, smiling to himself as he ransacked the cupboards, flinging things haphazardly around before finally finding it above the sink.

“Speaking of working for it…” Ian squeezed a dollop into his hand as he stepped back into the room, chucking the lube carelessly over his shoulder as he jumped back onto the bed, making Mickey laugh and the bed shake.

“You’re in a good mood,” he observed, as Ian reached out, throwing the blankets back off the end in one swift motion so that Mickey was suddenly right there, fully naked and waiting in front of him. Ian eyed him hungrily for a moment, his lips parting slightly as he stroked the lube down over himself; his knuckles were bruising from smacking against Russian bone, and they were sore, but it only made him feel more alive as they tightened.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Ian asked, flopping down beside Mickey, pressing up against him once more, causing his dick to slip wetly over Mickey’s ass.

“You wanna do it like this?” Mickey raised an eyebrow as he glanced back awkwardly over his shoulder to look at Ian, who reached down in answering, hooking a hand under Mickey’s knee and pulling his leg upwards.

“Oh fuck yea.” Ian bit at his shoulder, sucked kisses to the back of Mickey’s neck – flicked his nose through the hair at the back of his head – making Mickey’s breath quicken. “Hold your leg for a second, baby,” he breathed, and Mickey obeyed, holding his bent leg up in the air so that Ian could grab a hold of himself and slowly, gently, push his way inside, that tightness that only Mickey had swallowing him whole.

“Fuck I love you,” Mickey sighed suddenly, as Ian pushed himself all the way in, and there was more than just heat within him – there was a peaceful contentedness at hearing those words.

“Good.” Ian tightened his left hand on Mickey’s shoulder before sliding it down his arm, feeling all the skin and hair beneath his palm like static, and when he reached Mickey’s left hand, he pulled it from his thigh, intertwining their fingers together, causing Mickey’s leg to fall back down and his ass to close even further around Ian, and Ian moaned at the sudden change in pressure. He brought that tattooed hand up to Mickey’s clavicle and held it firmly in place, pressed up so close against his back that he barely had to shift his hips at all – he just laid his left leg over top of Mickey’s and moved within him, holding them together like two ancient locks and keys.

Ian didn’t know how long they were like that, but it wasn’t fast – it was slow; and it was happiness. He shifted against Mickey for what seemed like hours, their eyes closing while they simply felt each other’s skin – their heat, their moisture – focusing in on the growing pressure in their bellies and their cocks, letting it build slowly, slowly, and together.

Ian finally let go of Mickey’s hand when Mickey got close, reaching down and doing the work for him as he made love to him, Mickey cumming quietly in his tightened fist, his body shaking and contracting around his own dick, which made a whine escape Ian’s lips as he, too, fell apart in the morning light – right there on the soft white sheet – and nothing was desperate or urgent, it was just…love.

It was love in the morning, Ian thought. Love in the aftermath of chaos. Love in the possibilities of an unknown future.

In the end, it was just love in South Side.

They stayed in bed for a while, Mickey just resting his head on Ian’s chest – like it was his new favourite place to be – while Ian stared absently up at the ceiling, the serotonin and endorphins slowly receding in his blood, causing a calm feeling of happiness to devour him.

“What time is it?” Mickey asked eventually, his voice breathy and quiet from sleepiness, and he was clearly too worn out right now to move. Ian smiled to himself, sitting up a little and reaching a long arm out to grab his phone from off the bedside table.

“Just after eleven.” There were two message notifications from Lip, so Ian clicked his way in, laughing quietly at the picture of Freddie in a little blue onesie that said _‘My Uncle Is The Best’_ on the front. Sure, it _could_ mean him – or Carl, or Liam, or Brad even – but with it was a text:

**Lip: You know he means you. I miss you man and let me know if everything’s okay? We’re worried.**

Ian had hardly been able to give them _anything_ since Lip had been at his place earlier in the week – which already seemed like a lifetime ago – and he knew that eventually, they were going to need _something_.

Mickey shifted his head up, looking at Ian’s face then as if feeling his mood change, and must have seen the way Ian’s brows furrowed.

“You okay?”

“Just my brother...” Ian scratched his jaw, staring at the screen and wondering what to type back – just how much he should tell him…

“Tell him to come over,” Mickey said then, and Ian shot him a look.

“Really?”

“Yea, man.” Mickey shrugged, closing his eyes again and nestling his face against Ian’s stomach with a little smirk that made Ian’s heart squeeze. “My brothers will be here this afternoon,” he continued, “but, they already know him and shit so, there’s no risk – not this early in the game.”

Ian smiled down at his face, leaning forward to place a kiss to his temple.

**You awake?** he typed back, though he knew that he was; Lip never slept in anymore – not with Freddie.

**Lip: Yea. Everything okay?**

Ian rolled his eyes; they would never stop worrying.

**Yea! Are you free right now?**

**Lip: Sure, you wanna call?**

**No. Can you come to** …Ian stopped for a second, looking back down at Mickey.

“What’s the address here, Mick?” he asked; he knew the street name was Crestwick, but wasn’t sure of the number.

“1070 Crestwick,” Mickey groaned, bringing his arm up suddenly and placing his hand on Ian’s neck, tracing his thumb gently over it before leaning up and kissing his jaw, his eyes closed the whole time as if he were still half-asleep and dreaming.

“Fuck you’re cute,” Ian admitted, biting into his lip to keep him from distracting thoughts.

“No.” Mickey pouted his lips out, nuzzling his head back against the hair by Ian’s navel. “I’m tough.”

“Sure you are, baby.” Ian combed a hand through his messy black hair once, twice, before leaving him be.

**No. Can you come to 1070 Crestwick?** he finished, knowing Lip would know exactly where that was.

Eyeing the screen for a second, he waited impatiently for the typing bubbles to appear, when suddenly his phone rang, Lip’s name coming up.

“Hey,” he answered, and the knowledge that they were so close to each other made Ian indescribably happy.

“Are you here?” Lip asked at once, and Ian smiled.

“In South Side, yea.”

“Holy fuck, okay!” Ian could hear him scrambling around on the other end, clanking dishes into the sink. “Let me ask Debs if she’ll watch Fred for a bit and I’ll come.”

“Just text me.” Ian wanted to see Freddie of course, but it was best if he didn’t come here, not yet.

“I will!” There was a brief pause as both of them just breathed, and Ian thought maybe Lip was waiting for him to say something, but his brother beat him to it. “So are you like, out?” he asked, and Ian knew what he meant, but he couldn’t help it.

“Uhh, yea? I’ve been _out_ for a while, Lip. I have a boyfriend…”

“Fuck off.”

“Yea,” Ian snorted, and actually saying the words was like a breath of fresh air. “We’re out, and I’ll explain everything.”

“Thank fuck, man. Okay, I’ll text you when I’m on my way.”

“Sounds good.” With that, Ian hung up, tossing his phone up onto the corner of the mattress by his pillow as he slunk back down into Mickey, whose breath was coming softer as he gradually fell back into sleep.

Ian looked at him there in the softening light as the sun worked its way beyond their window – taking in every cell of his being like he was so used to doing. Something was different this time though, he thought, and he wasn’t quite sure what it was; there was just a sudden, indescribable feeling washing over him, making him feel like Mickey deserved to know everything – like he wanted to always tell Mickey _everything_. Maybe it was the innocence that radiated off of him in these soft, quiet moments, where there was no hint of anger or fear or shame in admitting the truths inside them; or maybe it was just that Ian felt like being in love in the moment.

Whatever it was, Ian embraced it.

“I thought you’d be a temporary fix,” he admitted, knowing exactly where the words were coming from, but not exactly why they were coming out this instant.

Mickey’s eyes fluttered open and he looked at him, his dark brows pulling together.

“What?”

“I thought you’d be a temporary fix,” Ian repeated, his eyes scanning over Mickey’s face, and he was going to say it – he was going to say it all. “I thought you were just going to be a bit of fun, like a small little distraction in the shit-storm that my life had become. I thought maybe we’d fuck and it would be nice and I’d maybe feel something for a little while before going back to feeling nothing, because…” he trailed off, feeling tears welling up in his eyes that he tried hard to hold back, despite his sudden burst of courage. “…because nothing has ever been able to fix me…but I think…I think maybe you’re starting to, Mickey. I think maybe after my initial break I…I never needed doctors or shrinks, because some hurts just go too deep…some hurts you can’t fucking fix…but you…you’re maybe starting to…to fix them, I mean…and I think you’ve mended me in all the ways that I was broken. I want something more from my life Mickey…and I know I want it with you.”

Ian sucked in a shaky breath, but he felt no shame or embarrassment at this confession – he felt no worry or anxiety at the reaction he might get, because he knew who he was talking to; despite the person everyone else might see on the outside, Ian knew who Mickey was, in all the ways that mattered.

Mickey was staring at him, his eyes so blue and intent that Ian thought maybe he hadn’t actually heard a thing – that he had just drifted off into his own thoughts, daydreaming while Ian spoke; but then the corner of his mouth pulled up the smallest bit, and whatever tiny hint of tension _was_ inside of Ian melted away in an instant.

“I’m not good at this shit,” Mickey whispered, reaching up and wiping an errant tear from Ian’s cheek as his face flushed. “But you…you make me feel like I’m worth something.”

That was it. Mickey didn’t say anything else – he didn’t need to – because Ian knew that that was everything – that that was more than Mickey Milkovich would ever admit or say to anyone, and that would always be enough.

“So you ready to do this, Milkovich?” Ian asked, and he meant _everything_ – he meant take the risk; he meant being in it for the long haul; he meant commitment; he meant going blindly into something neither of them had ever had before without knowing what the outcome would be.

“Damn straight, Gallagher,” Mickey replied in a hushed whisper, with no hesitation, and Ian knew that he, too, meant absolutely _everything_.

Ian closed the space between them, kissing him gently, tasting his upper lip between his own for a moment; he wasn’t going to say anything else, but everything was just so soft and peaceful – the tears on his cheek so warm – that he suddenly wanted to break the beautiful seriousness of it all, and he figured if Mickey was going to know everything, well, he may as well _actually_ tell him everything.

“I did a porno once,” Ian confessed bluntly, pulling back far enough that he could watch Mickey’s face as it contorted in confusion for a second before his forehead tightened and his ears went back a bit in anger.

“You did _what_?”

“A porno.” Ian bit his lip to keep from laughing; it wasn’t something he was proud of – in fact he hated himself for it – but he had resigned himself to the fact that it was out there, and there wasn’t much he could do about it now; so instead he just watched as Mickey’s face went through at least ten different emotions in as many seconds, his eyebrows dancing around like they had a will of their own. “I was a manic teenager at the time,” he added, hoping it would give him some sort of comfort. “I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing…”

“Is it like…” Mickey interrupted, trailing off as he rubbed his thumbnail over his eyebrow in what Ian knew was both annoyance and a bit of jealousy. “On the internet and shit?”

Ian reached up absently instead of answering, grabbing his phone back and tapping his way onto the website he had been on at least a thousand times, bringing up the video and turning the screen to show it to Mickey. Ian wasn’t in the thumbnail or anything, but the title was pretty suggestive in and of itself, and Mickey’s mouth tightened as he chewed on his lip, suddenly grabbing the phone out from Ian’s hand. Mickey sat up, taking his own cell from off the table beside him and hitting some number on speed dial before bringing it up to his ear.

“Hey,” he said, to someone Ian couldn’t hear. “Yea, I need a favour. Get me the number for…” he looked down at the porn screen, squinting a little at the small writing. “NVM Productions, and the name of whatever fucker runs it. Yea. Thanks.” Mickey hung up, throwing his phone to the end of the bed before tossing Ian’s haphazardly back towards him in a way that almost made Ian laugh again, because Mickey was clearly grumpy now.

“Who was that?” Ian asked, and Mickey got up out of bed, headed for the bathroom.

“Iggy.”

“And?”

“ _And_ ,” Mickey turned, raising those eyebrows at him before strolling naked into the bathroom. “I’m gunna take care of it!” With that he shut the door rather harshly, and Ian did laugh then, if only to himself.

Ian was downstairs in the kitchen, the bright sun of a late-May morning streaming in through the front windows as he strolled towards the fridge; it was fully stocked with everything they might need and then some – just like everything else in the house, apparently – and Ian wondered absently just how long it had taken Mickey to get food and dishes and bed-sheets and shampoo and furniture – how long it had taken him to think of all the things they might need and get it all in place for when they would finally arrive; knowing Mickey, Ian thought, it hadn’t taken long.

Ian grabbed the eggs and the milk, smiling to himself as he turned, noticing the Bluetooth speaker tucked into a tiled corner on the counter; of course Mickey wouldn’t leave _that_ behind – not when he was with Ian.

Ian grabbed his phone at once, syncing it up and putting on something upbeat, because that’s just the mood he was in today.

A text alert came through a little while later, just as Ian was finishing stacking a pile of pancakes onto a plate, and he glanced at the screen, his body moving slightly to the rhythm of the song that echoed out around him.

**Lip: Almost there.**

Excitement rose a bit within his chest as he typed back with semi-sticky fingers.

**Just come in.**

Ian jogged to the front door, unlocking it quickly before heading back to sit on one of the stools at the kitchen counter that reminded him a lot of home, drizzling a lake of syrup over his breakfast that pooled beautifully on his plate; Ian eyed it for a second – as if it were a work of art – before finally taking a bite.

“Yo?” Lip called suddenly, the front door squeaking slowly open, and Ian turned, mouth full.

“Yea, come in!” He got up, striding across the dining area to the entrance, wiping a crumb from his mouth before hugging Lip like it was the first time he’d ever actually done it.

“Jesus, you’re happy.”

Ian pulled back, smiling as he swallowed.

“Yea man,” he admitted, strolling back to his breakfast. “I am.”

Lip followed him in, glancing around the dining room – eyeing the kitchen and the floors – tilting his head back to look at the living room on the other side of the house – to peek up the stairs – and Ian watched the way his face changed as he took it all in, contorting in that way it did when Lip was judging something.

“Is Mickey with you or…?”

“Having a shower,” Ian replied, his face going hot at the way Lip looked at him, a knowing smile pulling up his lips as if he knew what they had done all morning. “What?” Ian spat, a chunk of pancake almost falling out of his mouth.

“No no, nothing!” Lip looked away, trying not to laugh. “Whose place is this?”

“Ours.” Ian said _ours_ automatically, because it _was_ theirs – everything belonged to him and Mickey, together.

Lip let out a low whistle, coming up to the counter and sliding onto the stool beside him.

“Well, shit!”

“Tell me about it.”

The stairs creaked suddenly under Mickey’s weight as he finally descended, and Ian liked that he was already starting to get used to the sounds of this place – to know what each little shift or movement meant – and sure enough, Mickey came around the corner then; he was in nothing more than a grey pair of track pants – his wet hair combed back – and Ian watched the way he moved, the heat within him rising right there in front of his brother as Mickey grinned at Ian’s hungry gaze before raising an errant eyebrow at Lip, as if realizing all at once he was even there.

“Hey,” Mickey greeted, and Lip raised his fingers in a wave as he walked directly up to Ian, placing a kiss on his lips before eyeing him sweetly. “Make any for me or what, Gallagher?” Mickey glanced at Ian’s stack of pancakes, and Ian pointed to the plate beside the stove.

“Of course.”

“Thanks.” Mickey strolled around the counter, digging in directly as he absently made a pot of coffee , chewing his way happily around the kitchen.

“Hey is that umm…?” Lip asked suddenly, trailing off as he motioned to Mickey’s bare chest. Mickey turned to look at him, his forehead pulling together curiously before following Lip’s gaze downwards.

Ian had almost forgotten, he was just so used to seeing them…

“Oh, yea…” Mickey’s face went an unbelievable shade of red as he took in the sight of Ian’s initials inked into his skin. “Fuck, that’s umm…”

“A long story,” Ian finished, granting Mickey some respite as he grinned at him. Lip pressed his mouth into a hard line to keep from laughing, just nodding to himself smugly before turning his attention back to his brother without prying any further.

“So you gunna tell me what the fuck happened?” Lip reached down and flicked Ian’s bruising knuckles, causing him to flinch.

Ian looked to Mickey, inquiring, and Mickey just shrugged.

“No sense in lying now, man.”

A huff of air escaped Ian’s nose in amusement at that; no, he supposed there really was no point in lying now.

“Well,” he sighed, shoving another piece of pancake into his mouth. “Where the fuck do I start?”

Only fifteen minutes had really passed before it was all out and on the table, so to speak. They were sitting in the dining room now, all three of them hunched over their cups of coffee that were steaming awkwardly in the silence between questions, answers, and explanations.

“Jesus,” Lip spat, leaning back in his chair and glancing at Mickey. “You really went all out.”

“Had to speed things up a bit,” Mickey admitted, shrugging. “But I made it work.”

Ian raised an eyebrow at him.

“You did?”

“Uh, yea?” Mickey looked at him as if he were an idiot. “I made it work, Gallagher. We’re here aren’t we?”

Ian rolled his eyes.

“No I meant, you had to speed things up?” Ian had obviously never been privy to the original plan – much to his annoyance – so this was news to him, just as much as it was to Lip.

“Oh, yea.” Mickey shrugged again, getting up to pour himself another mug-full. “We had planned on doing it later in the night, at Sirko’s place. We usually go back there after the gala, get drunk and talk business.” Mickey paused, stirring a massive heaping of sugar into his coffee. “We were going to do it there…but once I heard Okulov mention the trafficking, I just fuckin’ lost it.”

Ian felt his forehead crease as his brows pulled together in wondering, weighing out those words.

“Trafficking?” he asked, and just saying it was like molten lead on his tongue. Mickey shot him a look from the kitchen, his mouth opening a little as if he regretted mentioning that in the moment – like he had resigned himself not to admit that part of the story, but it had just slipped out accidentally.

“Like fucking _people_?” Lip spat suddenly, leaning forward on the table, his eyes glancing back and forth between them.

Mickey steeled himself for a moment, rubbing a finger over his lips, and Ian could tell he was clearly considering what exactly he should say.

“Yea,” he sighed finally, his knuckles whitening as he tightened his grip on his mug. “Once he was done with you…” Mickey pointed at Ian, his finger waving absently in the air before he scratched at his temple. “Well fuck, you know…”

Ian _didn’t_ know – he had never considered that outcome in the slightest, even though he probably should have, because it was obvious, wasn’t it? He felt his blood run cold and that nausea that had become so familiar to him return, everything inside his head suddenly becoming an anxious world of _what-ifs?_ : What if the plan hadn’t worked? What if they had left it just a day too long? What if Mickey had never found him?

Ian glanced at Mickey then, and his stomach calmed itself instantly as he eyed him there in the brightness of their kitchen, realizing all at once that _what-ifs?_ didn’t matter now. He got up from the table, nearly knocking his cup of coffee over before striding straight towards him, cupping Mickey’s face in his hands as he stared down into those eyes he loved, nothing but adoration and appreciation bursting forth over his walls.

Mickey raised his eyebrow at the sudden sentiment, pulling away slightly at such an obvious display of affection in front of Lip, but he must have seen the emotion in Ian’s eyes – seen the thankfulness that was held within them – so Mickey gave in, pushing himself up and kissing Ian once, twice, the taste of his coffee on Ian’s tongue as Mickey let his eyes close for only a moment, biting his own lip and grinning the smallest bit.

“The fuck would I do without you, hmm?” Ian whispered, his breath coming back hot against his chin, and he meant it – he had no idea who he would be, let alone where, or _what_.

“Apparently get yourself sold into the Russian sex trade,” Lip huffed, snorting before taking an errant sip of his coffee.

Ian flipped him the bird without even glancing away from Mickey.

“He’s right,” Mickey smirked, biting off a laugh that played on the edge of his lips, and Ian wrapped his arms around his waist in return, gripping onto his ass and squeezing it harshly.

“Oh is that so?” Ian smiled, teasing. “You think that’s funny?” Mickey _did_ laugh a little then as Ian pushed him back against the counter.

“It’s a little funny…”

“Come here, you asshole.” Ian kissed him again, biting hard on his bottom lip; it _wasn’t_ funny, but what more could they do about it now?

“I’d say _get a room_ ,” Lip sighed, leaning back in his chair again as he glanced anywhere but at his brother. “But I guess you kinda already got a whole house…”

There was a sudden knock on the door then and Mickey pulled back at once, leaving Ian gasping a little as he pushed him forcefully away before leaning over and pulling open the bottom drawer beside the fridge, where he promptly produced a Glock. Ian’s heart began to beat faster as Mickey chambered a round, giving Ian a ‘ _stay here’_ look before heading straight for the front door. Ian glanced at Lip, who stood casually with his coffee – as if this were just another day in South Side – coming to stand beside his brother in the kitchen.

They watched as Mickey paused for a moment behind the door, shifting the gun behind his back, and Ian had the random, wayward thought that despite the danger – the chaos that seemingly followed them everywhere – Ian still loved that Mickey could go from soft and malleable in the morning light – when it was just the two of them between the sheets – to hard, tough, as if nothing could ever break through that stone exterior, and Ian smiled to himself at the knowledge that he was the only thing that could, almost hoping there was someone on the other side of the door that would just _try_ …

~

Mickey eyed Ian for a moment, his heart pounding only slightly faster as he made sure he and Lip were far enough away – close enough to the back exit should they need to bolt…

“Open up, fuck head!” Iggy yelled suddenly from the other side of the door, and Mickey breathed a bit easier, rolling his eyes dramatically before throwing it open.

“Jesus, you weren’t supposed to be here ‘til this afternoon…”

“Whatever, close enough.” Iggy pushed his way in, and Mickey stepped aside as Colin came hobbling up the steps behind him, carrying a bright pink suitcase that Mickey assumed was Mandy’s stuff. Mickey noticed the pant-leg on his right side was tighter – the bandage making his thigh thicker underneath – and he felt a bit bad because of it. His own gunshot wound had healed to the point that he no longer really felt it, but he remembered the pain in the beginning.

“Nice bag, man,” Mickey joked, trying to ease his own mind, and Colin gave him the finger before shoving the suitcase into his hands, causing Mickey to nearly drop the gun as he held both it and the bag awkwardly, and watched in annoyance as Colin hobbled past him towards the kitchen.

Mickey was about to close the door when Mandy appeared suddenly around the corner of the sidewalk below, following her brothers through the gate and up the steps with much more grace and subtlety. Mickey knew she would be coming, but he hadn’t known when – that _was_ the promise he had made his brothers: to take Mandy with them.

“Hey, Mick,” she said, reaching the threshold and tilting her head out of the path of the loaded muzzle as she took her bag clumsily from his hands. “I’ll take this…”

“Hey.” Mickey leaned in as he always did, letting Mandy kiss his cheek; she looked tired, he thought, probably from a night of worrying about her brothers, since she had known absolutely everything. “Just go into the kitchen,” he added, motioning to her bag. “Leave that shit here, I’ll take it up later.”

Mickey shut the door, bolting it behind him before following them into the dining room, where his siblings were all just standing awkwardly, arms crossed over their chests as they stared curiously at Lip, as if he were an unwelcomed guest who wasn’t actually supposed to be there.

“Yea, this is Ian’s brother, Lip,” Mickey introduced, waving the Glock nonchalantly in his direction. “We went to school with him for a…”

“Oh shit!” Iggy exclaimed, pulling out a chair at the table and flopping into it. “I remember you! I think I used to pay you to copy your homework in like fifth grade…”

“Of course you did,” Mandy spat, slapping errantly at the back of his head before glancing at Ian’s brother; Mickey couldn’t be sure, but he thought there was something in the way she eyed him – something almost flirtatious – but fuck if he knew, women had always been a mystery. “I’m Mandy,” she admitted, stepping forward, and Lip raised his eyebrows a bit, shaking her small, outstretched hand.

“Lip.”

“Yea I remember you, too.” Mandy tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear, causing Mickey to chew on his lip in suspicion. “You were really smart.”

“Still is,” Ian put in, pouring himself another cup of coffee. “Total smartass, in every fuckin’ way.”

“Fuck you.” Despite this, Lip laughed, rubbing absently at the back of his head as he glanced at Mandy. “Yea I remember you I think,” he added, leaning back against the fridge. “You stole a bike from Angie Zhago and then cut her hair when she told her parents about it.”

Mickey snorted, along with everyone else in the room, and Mandy didn’t look the least bit ashamed, which made Mickey inexplicably proud.

“Hated that bitch,” she sighed, feigning a smile before sliding past Lip into the kitchen, sidling up close against Ian’s back as she reached around him to grab a mug, holding it up to him then with batted eyelashes, and she didn’t even have to ask, because Ian just huffed in amusement and filled it with coffee. “Thanks,” she winked.

“Careful,” Mickey said, eyeing her. “He’s taken, remember?”

“You think we could fuckin’ forget?” Colin spat, motioning to his leg as he hobbled to the chair beside Iggy, carefully placing himself into it. “I took a fuckin’ bullet for the two of you.” 

Mickey felt something like guilt crash through him then at those words, even though he knew Colin was being facetious, and he glanced at his brothers – watched the way they looked back at him; the way Mandy eyed them all with such affection – and he was thankful suddenly, for all of it; he didn’t think they would actually ever know just how much.

Ian caught his eye then, and Mickey turned to look at him, that feeling of guilt at once being replaced with one of happiness, because it had been worth it. Ian was looking back at him with the exact same amount of gratitude that Mickey felt, and he knew that he should be the one to say something – to say _anything_.

“ _Three_ of us,” Mandy corrected then, before Mickey could speak, looking directly at Colin as her face fell in the mid-day sun, and Mickey could tell she was sorry for it, just as much as he was.“You took a bullet for the _three_ of us.” She shrugged into her coffee. “You said _the two of you_ …”

“Hey,” Colin put in softly, reaching a hand out and placing it on her arm; Mickey knew if the Milkoviches could speak to anyone with any sort of affection, it was always the people they loved most – for Mickey, that was Ian; for Iggy and Colin, that was Mandy. “There’s nobody else we’d rather take a bullet for, Mands.” 

“Thanks for that, by the way,” Mickey breathed then, finally, eyeing his brothers and feeling abruptly uncomfortable at the level of honesty and affection, so he thumbed his eyebrow. “For like…”

“Shut up,” Colin cut in. “We know.” The corner of his mouth pulled up the smallest bit, and Mickey grinned, nodding in understanding.

The Milkoviches never had to say it out loud.

“By the way,” Iggy added, dirty blonde brows furrowing as he eyed his baby brother. “Since when do you have your boyfriend’s fuckin’ initials tattooed onto your chest?” He barely made it to the end of that sentence without laughing, and Colin promptly joined him, both of them falling apart there at the table.

“Mind your fuckin’ business.” Mickey flipped them both the bird, feeling his face go hot again – it wasn’t that he was embarrassed really, it was just that it was fucking weird with all of them staring at him like that, seeing the drunken declaration of love stamped permanently on his skin.

Mickey looked at Ian out of instinct – searching for a respite – and found him smiling widely back at him – as if really fucking proud, and maybe the smallest bit turned on – which somehow made Mickey feel a little less awkward as he took a sudden pride in those two tiny letters, too.

~

Ian glanced absently around at everyone as they all sat huddled about the dining-room table, sipping coffee, tearing off random chunks of rapidly-cooling pancakes, and laughing at old memories from when they were kids – every now and then an old memory coming back to one of them that would make their eyebrows shoot up – a smile or a laugh escape their lips.

As the minutes ticked by unnoticed, Ian almost forgot that he wasn’t at home on South Wallace – that this wasn’t his own family, and the people around him weren’t all his own siblings – but maybe, he thought, maybe that’s what they were becoming to him, and Ian rejoiced in it, sliding his chair closer to Mickey’s beside him as the noise of family filled his ears – that same soft thrum of conversation and happiness that comes with gatherings around a table – like at Christmas or Thanksgiving – consuming him; and it was suddenly no longer memories of Monica’s slit wrists or arguments as Fiona became more independent at family meetings that Ian was focusing on in his mind – it was moments like _these_ , and he tried to let the blaze from this newfound lighthouse flood the darkness, for once in his life just letting people be there for him – for _them_ ; just letting people _do_ something for him – for _them_ ; because they all loved someone, too, and loving someone – Ian knew – would always be enough for sacrifice.

Lip finally left after an hour or so, and it hadn’t escaped Ian’s notice the way in which he had spoken to Mandy nearly the entire time, leaning a little closer to her as they sat hunched in their own conversation at the far end of the table – in their own little world – and although he worried for Tami’s sake, Ian knew Lip was no longer that person – he wouldn’t do that anymore, not to her; but Ian also thought absently that maybe in another life – the same life where he and Mickey were together since they were kids – Lip and Mandy may have been as well. It just made sense, Ian thought as he had eyed them, and maybe it always would.

Sometimes, you just knew, right?

Mandy went upstairs once Lip had disappeared from sight, hauling her pink suitcase up to be unpacked in her small bedroom beside the bathroom. Ian had known of course that the plan was always to get Mandy out with them, and he didn’t mind having a guest, despite the fact that he and Mickey weren’t going to get to know what it would be like with just the two of them – alone and together – just yet; he didn’t known whether it would be bliss when the time came, or if both of them would be dead on the kitchen floor after a week from an apparent murder/suicide, so having Mandy there to break up that newfound aloneness was actually a bit of a relief. Of course Ian hoped for the former between he and Mickey – that it would still be bliss – but he prepared himself mentally for the latter, even though he didn’t think there was really a single thing Mickey could do that would drive him away – even if he could annoy the shit out of him sometimes.

Ian worried more for Mickey’s sake – at having to live permanently with someone who was bipolar…

At Mandy’s disappearance, Colin and Iggy huddled closer to Mickey in conversation, and just like that, the jovial mood went up in a cloud of smoke, and everything turned from memories to business. Ian took that as his cue, and got up, rubbing his hand over Mickey’s bare shoulders before stepping away, leaving them to hash out whatever plans they had cooking. Ian wasn’t good with plans – he never had been, flitting from one thing to the other and never settling; he wanted to help of course, but he figured that the best way to help the Brother’s Milkovich was by staying out of their way, and just going along for the ride.

Ian went upstairs, knocking softly on Mandy’s door before opening it; she was sitting on the end of the bed, staring into the small wooden wardrobe across from her – dresses and expensive clothes hanging colourfully inside, without a hair of space to spare.

“You get used to it,” Ian admitted, leaning against her doorframe, remembering how he had eventually adjusted to his situations every time – which were, ironically, the complete opposite of the one she found herself in now; whereas Ian had had hardly any clothes – and the ones he _did_ have were cheap – hanging in new, fancy, expensive places that didn’t suit him, Mandy was here now with new, fancy, expensive clothes, hanging in run-down, cheap places that didn’t suit _her_.

“Reminds me of home, actually,” she said, smiling at him. “Kinda want to go by the old place but, that would be fuckin’ stupid.”

Ian snorted, and imagined Terry probably had a car parked out front, just waiting for one of them to do something idiotic.

“Probably for the best.” Ian was about to turn away – to head into the bathroom to have a shower – when Mandy raised an eyebrow at him.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.” Ian flopped back against the doorjamb, tucking his hands into the pockets of his pyjama pants.

“If the roles were reversed,” she started, pulling a leg up and tucking it under her on the mattress. “Would you be doing the same for Mickey?”

Ian wasn’t expecting that question, and he swallowed hard, eyeing her there in the white-washed room, sun streaming through her side window and making her dark hair shine mahogany brown, like Mickey’s did sometimes in certain lights. Ian knew she didn’t just mean _him_ – she meant his whole family – would his whole family take the risk, for Mickey’s sake as much as his own; she loved her brothers, and she worried – Ian knew this – but this wasn’t just her way of asking if _he_ loved Mickey enough to risk it all – it was her way of asking if his _family –_ his own siblings – would risk it all – make the sacrifices that her own brothers were – for Mickey’s happiness as much as his own.

Mandy wanted to know if Ian was worth all of this trouble – if he was worth her brothers’ lives.

Lip crossed Ian’s mind then; then Debbie, Carl, Liam, Fiona, and finally Mickey; and he didn’t even know why he was thinking about it.

“Yes,” he admitted simply, and turned. “My family would risk it all for me.”

~

It was nearly three by the time his brothers left; Ian hadn’t come back downstairs, but Mickey didn’t worry much about it – he knew Ian would let them sort through the details on their own, because he himself wouldn’t have a clue of what to do, which was fine by Mickey – he liked that Ian wasn’t privy to the real bad stuff; he was just his innocent, porcelain boy, who could be a little tough sometimes when he needed to.

Mandy only reappeared when Colin and Iggy were on their way out, hugging them both together, kissing them each on the cheek before watching them go. Mickey hated that they had to be separated like this so suddenly, but it comforted him to know it was for the best.

Mickey went up the stairs, tightening the string on his track pants before pushing open their bedroom door. Ian was sitting up in the bed, his earbuds tucked into his ears as he watched something on his laptop.

“Hey baby,” Ian smiled as he came through the door, and Mickey softened a bit, thinking that he wanted to hear Ian say that to him every time he came through the door for the rest of his life. “Your brothers go?”

“Yea.” Mickey finally grabbed a t-shirt from the dresser and slipped it on. “We worked some things out.”

“Like what?” Ian took the earbuds out, curling them up and setting them on the keyboard before putting the laptop down onto the floor.

“I’ll tell you later. Right now, I’m starving.” Mickey hadn’t even finished the pancakes Ian had made him, and now they were a cold, sloppy, half-eaten mess on a plate in the kitchen.

“Want me to make something?” Ian raised his eyebrow, a smile playing on the edge of his lips that Mickey wondered at.

“The fuck you smiling at?”

“This domestic shit we have goin’ on now,” Ian admitted, smile widening. “I’m not mad about it.”

Mickey hadn’t really had time in all the chaos to stop and think about it – about actually _living_ with Ian – about being with him every day, waking up with him, eating with him, and he wondered absently if it _was_ going to be domestic bliss, or if they were both going to be dead in a week from an apparent murder/suicide…

“Can you even cook anything besides pancakes?” Mickey spat, and Ian flipped him the bird.

“I can cook a big plate of fuck you, Mick!” Ian got up, holding his middle finger out as he walked directly past Mickey before disappearing down the hallway, and Mickey smiled, a huff of air escaping his nose in amusement.

Ian ordered pizza instead – as if in spite – once again flipping Mickey the bird as he closed the front door behind him after paying, an arrogant ‘ _cook this, Milkovich!’_ look crossing his face that made Mickey love him even more, he was sure of it.

The three of them sat together in the living room and ate it piece-by-piece, watching the tail end of some comedy special that made them laugh for the most part, but at some point amongst the laughter, Mickey drifted off into daydreaming; it was an odd sensation, he thought, sitting there and not worrying about business – what meeting or trade-off was coming next; what precautions to take; what the fallout could be for any given run. For his entire adult life, all Mickey had worried about was crime, and money, and the possibility of not having a normal future; but now he was sitting here in a seemingly normal life – almost feeling a little bored and out-of-the-loop as his brothers were out there somewhere – with only a few small details to wrap up, and he wasn’t altogether sure he liked it – the sitting around and waiting; that is, he wasn’t altogether sure he liked it until Ian’s hand reached out suddenly from the other side of the couch – as if aware of Mickey’s doubts – intertwining tightly with his own there in the dimming light of dusk, and he was at once one-hundred percent sure in that moment that he _did_ like it – he liked it _very_ fucking much.

They fucked as quietly as they could that night, subconsciously aware at all times that Mandy was down the hall now – not that she would really care, but Mickey did, and he knew Ian did, too.

Ian moved within him slowly – like he had that morning – his rhythm and speed increasing as he bent Mickey forward on the bed, wrapping his freckled hand around and taking his dick in his tightened fist and rubbing him until the point of explosion, jerking the tip of Mickey’s head like he _loved_ before Ian fell apart inside of him in return, all the vibrations and pulsing movements making Mickey feel whole, like it always did.

“I love you,” Ian whispered after it was done, pulling himself out and placing a kiss to the back of Mickey’s sweaty neck, which made him smile; he liked that they always said that to each other when it was done, as if cumming wasn’t the grand finale – the declaration of love was.

“Me, too,” Mickey panted in reply, letting Ian disappear for a cloth again before coming back to clean them up.

They sat there in the dark later, propped side by side in bed against the headboard, sharing a joint Mandy had given them as they laughed about nothing in particular. Mickey liked watching Ian in the darkness – the way his skin was paler, almost as if it were blue instead of pink – but after a while, he flipped the light on, too stoned to really keep squinting in the shadows.

“It’s done, by the way,” Mickey admitted then, pointing absently to Ian’s phone, as if expecting Ian to understand what the fuck he was talking about.

“What is?” Ian looked at his phone with heavy eyelids, then back at Mickey, his face squishing together in a way that made Mickey laugh.

“The porno,” he coughed, handing the joint back so Ian could snuff it out on the plate they had put beside the bed.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s gone,” Mickey confessed, shrugging, and just the look on Ian’s face was worth it, not to mention the relief he felt at nobody else being able to jack off to the man he loved.

“ _You got them to take down my porno_?” Ian spat, and he honestly looked surprised, as if that wasn’t something Mickey would actually do for him.

Mickey didn’t think there was anything he wouldn’t do for Ian…

“Not just take it down man,” Mickey sighed, picking an errant piece of bud off his tongue. “Deleted all the files, wiped their hard-drives, confiscated the original tapes…”

“Iggy?”

“Yea,” Mickey admitted. “Iggy called…”

“Fuck that’s so hot,” Ian interrupted, leaning forward suddenly to kiss Mickey’s neck as if he were about to die if he didn’t, and Mickey was just getting to that point of being _so_ high that all you are is horny, and his dick was hard again at once as Ian trailed wet, cooling kisses down his chest, every touch of his lips like fucking electricity under his skin in his current state of being.

“Oh shit Ian,” he sighed, as Ian pulled the blanket back, and Mickey’s dick was suddenly there, immediately being slipped into Ian’s mouth before Mickey could even really breathe.

They had fucked while stoned before, but this was different, Mickey was sure of it. One, Mickey was sure this weed Mandy had given them was some medical grade shit or something, because he had never been this fucked before; but also, this wasn’t just a normal moment in his old life – this was bliss and happiness, with no other worries – and Mickey felt his eyes roll into the back of his head as Ian sucked on him, the wet sound of spit filling his ears, his whole body and mind nothing but sensation as the pot worked its way through him, and Mickey was also sure he had never felt this fucking good – ever.

“You’re so wet,” Ian observed, thumbing a string of precum off his dick, and Mickey shuttered at the feeling.

“Holy fuck I’m high,” he admitted, his face splitting into an irrepressible smile as Ian grinned up at him through narrowed eyes – obviously in another dimension as well – and before they knew it they were falling apart, Ian trying his best to increase his pressured strokes and suck Mickey’s dick through random fits of laughter, the vibrations of which only increasing the pleasure and sending Mickey all the way over the edge before too long.

“You’re gunna cum,” Ian said after a minute or two, probably feeling the pulses in his hand and mouth as Mickey’s balls drew up.

“Oh fuck yea.” Mickey closed his eyes again as a feeling of euphoric happiness and pleasure burst inside of him like a fucking atom bomb, making his mouth drop all the way open as he came in Ian’s mouth, and Mickey was sure he saw fucking planets and stars and comets and all the things out of this fucking world before he finally opened them again, watching as Ian wiped at his mouth, smiling from ear to ear.

“How good was that?” Ian asked, his eyes so red they matched his hair, and before Mickey knew it he was pushing him back against the headboard, straddling his lower legs.

“I’ll show you.”

Ian was already hard as a rock, his cock dripping precum as it twitched, which Mickey observed tasted even better stoned as he slid him all the way into his mouth, and he was happy to find that his gag reflex was suppressed by the weed too, and he wondered why the fuck they didn’t do this more often.

“HolyFuckingShitBaby,” Ian breathed, the words coming out so fast that Mickey laughed, his throat contracting and sending those insane vibrations throughout Ian’s dick, making him hold Mickey’s head back for a second while he calmed himself.

“You gunna make it?” Mickey asked, and Ian peeled one red eye open, which just made Mickey laugh more. “You’re fucking hot, Gallagher.” With that Mickey went back to work, tasting Ian is his mouth – over his tongue – as he moved up and around him, consuming him, and Mickey was sure he could actually feel his cells – feel the blood coursing through his veins as he tightened his hand subconsciously, feeling Ian’s sudden response.

“Gunna cum,” Ian said then, after only thirty seconds, and Mickey held on, at once excited to see what Ian’s cum would taste like, and when it came – hot and wet into his mouth – he wasn’t disappointed; he was sure he could taste the pineapple they had had for dessert, and maybe a bit of sunshine, too.

“Fuck you taste like summertime,” Mickey confessed randomly, not really knowing where it came from or what that really meant as he pulled himself up, kissing Ian on the lips so he could share it with him – so he could share _everything_ with him – and Ian opened his mouth willingly.

“Like pineapples,” Ian whispered then, and fuck, all they were was planets and stars and comets and everything out of this fucking world.

Mickey awoke to the sound of Ian’s soft breath beside him, muted morning light coming in through the open blinds that let Mickey know it was cloudy, and maybe even raining. Ian’s left arm was draped over him – their fingers intertwined tightly – so Mickey lifted it carefully up over him, shifting himself and Ian so he could roll over and face him there on the white pillows that had always reminded him of clouds.

There were tiny blue veins on his eyelids, snaking their way under that porcelain skin and those freckles, and Mickey had never thought he could love skin so much, let alone a person.

“You staring at me, Milkovich?” Ian whispered suddenly, his eyes fluttering open slowly, and Mickey’s heart nearly stopped at the sight of them in the morning light, the colour reminding him of the coastal waters he had seen in Thailand under stormy skies.

“I usually am, yea.”

“Fuck you’re soft.” Ian smiled, those eyes closing as he leaned forward, just waiting for Mickey to kiss him, which he did willingly.

“Only with you.”

“Good.” Ian looked at him then, his warm morning breath drifting over Mickey’s chin, and Mickey didn’t think he would ever mind it. “So are we staying here?” Ian asked suddenly, and Mickey’s brows pulled together in confusion.

“Huh?”

“Are we staying in the house for good, I mean...” Ian shifted his eyes around the room – taking in the details – and Mickey understood; Ian wanted to know where they were headed – what plans he and his brothers had made the day before without him around to hear…

“Canada,” Mickey admitted bluntly, not wanting to beat around the bush, and knew it probably wasn’t the answer Ian was looking for, but they had thought it was the smartest decision. “We’re going to Canada.”

Ian’s forehead creased as he looked back at him with darkening eyes – so close their lips were almost touching – and Mickey felt his chest tighten and his heart ache a little at the sadness that crossed over Ian’s entire being.

“Toronto?” he asked, probably trying to calculate the exact distance they’d be from home – from his family – which made Mickey feel even worse, ‘cause that _wasn’_ t where they were going – it wasn’t even close..

“No, Calgary.”

Ian’s face contorted in confusion a bit at hearing that name, his brows pulling together, and Mickey thought it was maybe a little bit cute, considering.

“Where?”

“It’s a city.”

“In Canada?” Ian looked thoroughly lost, and Mickey couldn’t help himself – he laughed then, so softly in the morning quiet.

“Yea, it’s west, by the mountains and shit…”

“You mean Vancouver?” Ian asked, and Mickey snorted, thumbing his jaw.

“No, dumbass, I mean Calgary. It’s smaller than Vancouver, less obvious than Toronto, and it isn’t fuckin’ French like Montreal. Plus I hear it’s super clean and stuff and like, hip and busy…”

Ian rolled abruptly over, grabbing his phone from off the table, and Mickey watched as he Googled _Calgary_ before scrolling absently through the pictures.

Ian scratched at his chin – something he did when he was unsure but considering – as he looked at the buildings, the river, and the mountains in the distance…

“Looks kinda nice actually.” He smiled then, a small look like decision ebbing across his face, which calmed Mickey a little.

“It wouldn’t be forever,” Mickey confessed, trying to ease his mind a little. “Just until they sort things here and things have…calmed down.”

“So when would we leave?” Ian swallowed hard then, turning away, and Mickey could tell he was thinking about his siblings again.

“A few weeks.”

“That long?”

“I have a few things to do here first – get passports, find an apartment there...” Mickey thumbed his eyebrow. “We had the initial plan in place to get us out but, the details we knew were going to have to be hammered out after, which is why we’re still here.”

Ian nodded, tossing his phone onto the duvet before cuddling back in closer to Mickey, draping an arm over his waist and petting absently through the soft hair of his sacrum. Mickey watched Ian’s face – watched the emotions and the thoughts dance their way across; Ian had never been that great at hiding them; or maybe – Mickey thought absently – maybe he was just really good at reading them.

“How are we going to get money?” Ian inquired, causing Mickey to actually laugh.

“Fuck, we don’t have to worry about that.”

“You have some stored away, Milkovich?”

“Sure, you could say _some_ …” Mickey pulled his face back a bit to look at him better.

“How much?” Ian raised an errant eyebrow, and Mickey scratched at his temple, sniffing loudly in the silence; he didn’t really want to tell him. “Mick!” Ian pushed himself up on an elbow, looking down at him from above as a curious smile pulled up the corner of his mouth. “ _How much_?”

Sirens blared around the room then as a cop car sped by on the wet pavement outside, and Mickey thought he actually heard the sound of birds for a moment as he steeled himself.

“Almost four million…” he confessed finally, and he thought Ian was going to pass out as his mouth dropped open and his eyes widened.

“I’m fuckin’ sorry…” he exclaimed dramatically, looking errantly around the room as if someone was pranking him before sitting all the way up. “Did you just say _almost four million dollars?_ ”

Mickey shrugged, chewing the inside of his lip as he rolled onto his back, tucking his arms under his head and staring at the ceiling; he had always hated money really – yea he had it, but he didn’t think he’d ever really needed it. In the end, the only reason he’d transferred it out and taken it with him was for Ian’s sake.

“Yea,” he admitted simply, resigning himself to the fact that Ian would probably never be used to it, and who could blame him?

Ian flopped hard against the headboard suddenly, causing it to knock harshly against the wall as he, too, stared up at the ceiling, as if the answers to all their problems were etched up there somewhere in the popcorn stucco.

“Well fuck me, Mickey! We could go anywhere!” Ian smiled to himself, clearly thinking of the endless possibilities now laid out before them, but Mickey knew it was only because of the sudden realization that they were – technically – rich. Mickey also knew from experience that everyone always has grand ideas if they’re lucky enough to come into a shit-ton of money, but it isn’t until after it’s all gone they realize what it was they really should have spent it on – what it was they truly wanted.

“I thought maybe you could go back to school,” Mickey admitted then, quietly, sitting up against the headboard beside him, and Ian glanced towards him, his brows furrowing.

“What?”

“Well, you mentioned once that you thought about becoming a firefighter like your ex or some shit, maybe a paramedic so…” he trailed off, shrugging against the wood of the headboard as he rubbed the end of his nose. “You said you wanted to help people, right?”

Ian looked at him then, his eyes shifting over his face as he took him in, considering.

“Mick, we could do anything, we don’t have to…”

“But what is it you truly want, Ian?” Mickey asked then, and he wasn’t being gentle about it; Mickey thought he knew – thought he had always known – because it was the same thing he wanted, too.

Ian’s brows pulled further together, and Mickey watched him think – watched the way his forehead danced as he considered for a few minutes, a million different scenarios probably playing over in his mind as the rain fell harder outside, tapping its way down the glass.

After a while, a small smile pulled up the corner of Ian’s lips, and Mickey thought he had decided.

“This,” he admitted finally, eyeing the small room in the small house on South Side – eyeing Mickey in bed beside him – and Mickey let out a breath. “I want _this_.”

“Exactly.” Mickey smiled at him, reaching out to touch his cheek with the palm of his hand, just enough for Ian to lean his head into it and close his eyes.

“And what about you?” Ian asked then, his voice growing quieter as tiredness returned, sinking into his bones. “What do you want, Mick?”

“If you don’t know the answer to that, Gallagher,” Mickey answered, kissing his forehead before getting up to head for the bathroom. “Then I think you don’t know me at all.”

It turned out Ian _did_ actually know how to cook, and cook well; he made dinner almost every single night for two weeks, rarely asking Mickey or Mandy for help. Mickey would just sit at the counter or at the dining table, sipping beer – sharing a joint with him and Mandy – watching Ian as he scurried around the kitchen, stirring things in pots or in pans, steam and different smells escaping out into the room that made Mickey warm in more ways than one as music echoed constantly around them, streaming from Ian’s phone. Mickey always offered to help, and a few times Ian _did_ actually let him, but mostly he liked doing it by himself – he said it kept his mind busy as the days slowly passed them by.

Mickey and Mandy would do the clean-up, letting Ian finally sit and rest, and Mickey could always feel Ian’s eyes on him as he shuffled about, washing and drying up, putting things back where they belonged, and he wondered absently if they would ever stop watching each other.

Mickey hated that they couldn’t really go anywhere right now; he hated that Ian was cooped up with him – because of him – but he sometimes thought Ian didn’t altogether mind it, and maybe the monotony was welcome – at least for now – but wondered if one day Ian wouldn’t be able to take it.

Mandy would sing some mornings and some nights; she would putter around her room upstairs, or around the kitchen – the living room – singing absently as if she was unaware there were still people around that could hear her, and Mickey thought that maybe Ian was his favourite music now, but Mandy – Mandy would always be the first sound he loved. Her voice would echo off the empty walls, and Mickey would put the TV on mute for a moment as Ian looked up from a book he had finally decided to read – his feet up in Mickey’s lap – both of them staring off absently in different directions as they listened to her. Sometimes it was so melancholic and beautiful that Mickey actually felt his heart ache, and he was sure a few times he had seen tears in Ian’s eyes; sometimes it was so upbeat and happy that it almost made them forget what they were doing here.

Sometimes, Mickey and Ian argued; they argued over an errant dirty plate left on the dining room table, and they argued over the TV remote that went missing more than it was around. Sometimes they argued because there wasn’t really much else to do; but despite this, almost every single night they ended up between the sheets together – or on top of them – making love or fucking, depending on the mood; sometimes they were high, sometimes they weren’t – but every single night – every single time – Mickey was also happy.

After those first two weeks though, Mickey could see Ian was starting to get anxious like he thought he might – his movements becoming a bit more jerk-y, his temper becoming a bit more errant from being locked up inside this house. He took his pills religiously of course, sometimes asking Mickey to keep an eye on him – to make sure that he was acting normal, and that if he wasn’t, to tell him – to tell Lip – because sometimes he didn’t always notice it himself.

Mickey worried at this of course, but knew there wasn’t much he could do for him, except be there, and maybe grant him some reprieve.

“You should head home tonight,” he said on Saturday morning, two weeks to the day of the gala. “Just for a bit.”

Ian looked at him from across the table, an errant drop of milk on the edge of his lip that reminded Mickey of the night before, and he felt his cheeks go hot for a second before Ian wiped it away.

“Whatta you mean?”

“I mean, you should go home and see your brothers and sister.” Mickey didn’t want him to go – was worried about being away from him right now; but he was worried about Ian’s state of mind more, and if being so isolated with nothing to do was hurting him more than being a fucking escort did.

“Isn’t that risky?” Ian shoved the last spoonful of Lucky Charms into his mouth, tilting the bowl up to chug the blue, marshmallow-dyed milk.

“Maybe,” Mickey admitted, though he didn’t think it was. They had covered all those bases. “You’ll be alright.”

“You sure?” Ian eyed him, smiling a little at the prospect as he got up, rinsing his bowl before placing it into the sink.

“You said you trust me, right?” Mickey asked, remembering Ian’s comment all those days ago, and how he was sure having Ian’s trust meant more than having his love.

“Of course.” Ian came up behind him then, wrapping his arms around Mickey’s neck and nuzzling his lips into his ear, causing Mickey’s flesh to ripple as he breathed.

“Well then, trust me, Gallagher. You need to go for a bit.” Mickey pulled back, turning his head so he could kiss Ian’s cereal-sweetened lips before getting up.

“You sick of me already?” Ian was joking of course, but Mickey heard the slight tension in his voice – the small hint of worry.

“Fuck yes. Wash your bowl, you degenerate.” Mickey winked at him, smiling a little as he turned to head for the shower; he knew Ian was watching him go, so before Mickey went up the stairs, he stopped at the bottom, tilting his head back around the corner to look at Ian. “And when you’re done, come see me in the shower, so I can tell you how fucking sick of you I am.”

~

Ian knew things were a tiny bit calmer; Colin and Iggy had stopped by a couple times with groceries and updates – had called Mickey in the dead of night – but they weren’t out of the woods yet – they weren’t even fucking close.

Terry had settled his search a bit, convinced that Ian and Mickey had already left the country with no paper trail to speak of. Yet despite all this, Ian was still weary, and rightly so; he eyed every car that passed him on the way to South Wallace, jumping a little at the sound of nearby firecrackers or car alarms. He hated being this on edge, but he knew it was better to be on edge and alert than be clumsy with the shit-storm brewing around them – because clumsy got you killed.

By the time he reached the house, he practically ran up the steps – the same way he did as a kid when he was sure something scary was behind him in the dark – swinging open the unlocked door and closing it tightly behind him before bolting it.

“Ian?” Debs said, coming out suddenly from the kitchen, and Ian turned, smiling when he saw her – she was dressed up in a little black dress, clearly getting ready to go out some place nice.

“Hey Debs.” He stepped forward, hugging her tightly after all those hectic weeks apart, inhaling her perfume for a second as if it was Mickey’s, and he was unbelievably glad to see her. “You smell nice.”

“Uh, thanks.” She laughed a little, glancing around absently. “Are you okay?” Ian could see the worry cross her face.

“I’m good.”

“Good. I’ve missed you.” She hugged him again, squeezing a second longer than she normally did. “Lip’s upstairs,” she admitted, “just packing up some stuff to take over to the new place.”

“Nobody else is home?” Ian felt his heart sink a little; he had waited impatiently for weeks, and now that he actually had the chance to come, nobody was around.

“No,” Debs sighed, turning to head back into the kitchen, throwing her keys and her wallet absently into a fairly nice bag that Ian knew was probably stolen. “Carl is working late, and Liam is at a friend’s place.”

“Shit.” Ian glanced around, eyeing everything that was familiar and everything that he loved. “I know I should have called but…”

“Shut up,” Debbie interrupted, turning to glance at him before placing a hand on his shoulder. “You can come here whenever you want Ian, you know that. We’re just happy you’re out of that fuckin’ mess.”

“Lip tell you everything?”

“Tell her what?” Lip put in, bounding down the stairs then, carrying a duffle bag full of clothes that were hanging haphazardly out of the opened zipper.

“About me and the shit a few weeks ago…”

“Yea,” Debbie confessed, eying them both before hiking the purse up over her shoulder. “He told us, and you’re really fuckin’ lucky, dumbass.” She leaned up, kissing him on the cheek – which is something she never did – and Ian knew he was loved. “I’m headed out. Franny is at the babysitters.”

“Be safe, Debs,” Ian added, knowing she always would be, but he had to say it anyways.

“I will.” With that she turned, heading out the back door into the night, and Ian worried just a little bit more.

“You alright?” Lip asked, setting the bag on the table to pull out a cigarette as he eyed his brother, the look on Ian’s face clearly causing _him_ to worry, too.

“Just on edge,” Ian admitted, sliding into a chair at the table. “It’s been weeks and trust me, I’m not sad to be out of that shit man but…”

“It sucks waiting,” Lip finished, smoke escaping his lips.

Ian just nodded, chewing the inside of his lip.

Lip sat down beside him, handing him his cigarette, and Ian took it, taking a couple drags and letting the nicotine buzz through him, easing his tensions just the smallest bit. It was nice to be home again, he thought, even though home to him was now a red-brick two-story a few blocks over – where Mickey was – this place would still always be _home_ home.

“Do you know where you’re going next?” Lip asked after a few minutes, causing Ian to look up at him, hand back the smoke that had been burning idly between his fingers.

“Canada,” Ian admitted, and Lip’s brows pulled together.

“Fuck, really?”

“Yea.”

“That far?”

“For now,” Ian reassured, scratching absently at his nose. “Mickey thinks it’s smarter to go north.”

“Why’s that?”

“They speak English, for one,” Ian snorted, trying to be lighthearted. “Also if we have to stay for a while, it’s easier to get jobs, apartments, whatever…”

“Do you even need jobs?” Lip asked, raising an eyebrow, and Ian knew he was referring to Mickey’s money.

“Fuck no, we have enough for the rest of our lives, and then some.”

“Then why don’t you just disappear? Travel?”

Ian looked away, eyeing the pictures Franny had drawn on the front of fridge, the pile of laundry on the washing machine, Lip’s work schedule on the white-board, and all at once it was an easy question to answer, unlike it had been when Mickey had asked him.

“Because I want _this_ ,” Ian sighed, looking at his brother as he waved his hand absently to encompass the whole room – the whole house. Lip smiled a little, and clearly understood.

Ian wanted a home; he wanted to stay still; he wanted to be proud for once in his life; he wanted something _real_.

“And what does Mickey want?” Lip asked, tossing the burned-out filter into a coffee mug in front of him, and Ian grinned to himself, remembering Mickey’s words a couple weeks before: _If you don’t know the answer to that, Gallagher, then I think you don’t know me at all_.

Ian _did_ know, because Ian knew him; better than anyone.

“I think…” Ian smiled, taking a deep breath that was full of promise. “I think he wants me to be happy.”

Ian didn’t _think_ that, really – he _knew_ that; he knew Mickey had already given up everything for him, and that he would do it all again in a heartbeat; he also knew that Mickey had had plans for his own life, but that those plans just happened to now involve Ian; so their separate plans for their separate lives had now merged into one, and happiness was at the centre of everything.

“Let me take this bag over to the house,” Lip put in then, standing up as he grabbed the duffle. “I’ll grab a few pops and come back?”

“Sure.” Ian smiled, patting his brother’s hand absently as he stood and headed for the living room. “I’ll be here.”

Ian flopped down onto the faded green couch that smelt faintly like beer and Frank – which was basically the same thing – and despite the loathing he had for the man, he smiled a bit, flipping the TV to a Blackhawks game, which of course he didn’t really care much about, but the white noise in this empty house that was never usually empty calmed him a bit.

He glanced up at the mantelpiece, eyeing every picture one by one, wondering absently if his and Mickey’s house in South Side would always be there, and if maybe one day there would be pictures above their own fireplace – pictures with just as many happy or funny stories behind them – like that ridiculous photo of them on the couch with that random old lady who acted like Aunt Ginger once so they could continue to collect her cheques, and so that none of them would go to jail as accessories after the fact, thanks to Frank. Ian snorted at the memory, glancing to the one of Carl with his tongue out, remembering the day it had been taken…when suddenly he stopped remembering altogether, and everything went black.

~

Mandy was upstairs organizing her closet for the tenth time that week, and Mickey was on the couch, eyeing his phone every now and then; Ian hadn’t even taken his phone with him, as Mickey had told him to leave it at home – just in case – but it was still just habit for Mickey to expect a text or a phone call from Ian when Ian wasn’t actually there with him.

The Blackhawks game was on – as they were officially into the playoffs – which meant everything was louder, longer, and Mickey stared at the shifting bodies on the screen, sipping absently on his beer as his mind wandered.

Suddenly his phone rang beside him, and he glanced down at it, his heart hammering in his chest suddenly as he saw Lip’s name appear on the screen.

“What’s wrong?” Mickey answered, and maybe nothing was actually wrong, maybe Ian just needed to call and ask him a question…

“Ian’s gone, man,” Lip spat, and his voice was erratic. “There’s fuckin’ blood everywhere…I…”

Mickey was out the door before he could finish, his socked feet hitting the pavement with such force that he was sure they were already bleeding by the time he rounded the first block, passing a random group of kids that eyed him suspiciously before he hit the second, his breath burning his lungs and making them ache as he fucking ran to that little blue house beside the empty lot, nearly launching himself up the front steps in a single go before he burst through the front door, breaking the lock off the doorframe.

There was blood on the floor, and the couch cushions were all askew, as if someone had put up a fight – or had been dragged off of them.

Mickey’s head was fucking empty – there was nothing in it – but there was fucking _everything_ in it at the same time; images of Ian dead somewhere, images of Ian tied up somewhere, images of Ian dead somewhere....

“Mickey!” someone was saying through crashing waves, and Mickey turned his head to look at Lip in a fucking haze; he had tears in his eyes as he squeezed his hand erratically over his head.

“What happened?” Mickey managed, and he was only half listening, blood rushing through his ears as his heart pounded through his fucking ribcage and he grabbed handfuls of his own hair, felt his feet burning beneath him.

“I left for like twenty minutes man, and when I came back he…” Lip stopped, turning and punching the wall beside him. “ _Fuuuck!_ ” he screamed, and Mickey would have done the same if he had been able to be angry; but he wasn’t angry, he was fucking terrified.

“I uhh…” he didn’t know what to say; he didn’t know what to do.

_What the fuck was he supposed to do?_

Mickey started pacing around the room, looking at everything and nothing all at once, the low-volume of that godforsaken hockey game on the TV like fucking loud speakers in his ears.

“The fuck is this?” Lip asked suddenly, and Mickey turned towards him, grasping onto anything in this fucking darkness he suddenly found himself in. Lip was holding a white envelope that had blood on the corner, and suddenly – just like that – everything was in complete focus, Mickey’s mind becoming crystal clear as the blood silenced itself, as if every errant thought had been sucked out, and after two whole fucking weeks of being bored – of thinking he was out – he was right back to business.

“Give me it,” he demanded, pulling his phone out at once and dialing Colin. He tucked the phone between his shoulder and his ear as he opened the envelope and pulled out the small piece of paper, reading it as the phone rang:

 _The warehouse_.

That could only mean one thing.

“Hey,” Colin answered, and Mickey crumpled the note, throwing it onto the floor.

“Terry has Ian,” he admitted, and every fucking cell in his body tensed, as if every last ounce of fear and adrenaline was replaced by rage and focus. “At the warehouse.”

With that Mickey hung up, shooting Lip a knowing look before heading back out into the night, blood soaking through his socks and leaving tracks on the sidewalk as he headed purposefully towards home, his car, and the only thing he knew beyond a doubt was that _somebody_ was going to die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Okay, maybe ONE big adventure and/or misstep....I lied only a little bit, but you all knew it was coming!  
> -We have reached the home-stretch and I AM SO EXCITED. Hold onto your pants, people, I never do endings the easy way!


	12. Threshold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey does whatever he can to save everything he loves and put an end to it all, but at what cost?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, I want to say sorry for the longer wait-time! It has been a sad few weeks for my family, so it took a bit longer than usual to get this baby written up!  
> Secondly, a strong warning that this chapter has violence (both physical and sexual) and that there is use of homophobic language.  
> Lastly, thank you as always for being patient, for waiting, for reading, for everything! As always, feel free to follow me on Twitter @WhatsaMattavich for weekly updates, excerpts, etc etc!

Mickey was still running, every-day life passing by him in a blur – families laughing in their backyards; groups of teenage kids drinking on front porches, their faces illuminated in the orange glow of lighters as they lit their smokes; the air smelt like cigarettes, weed, and barbecue, and Mickey thought it was all so unbelievably _normal_ as he headed back towards the house, his feet stinging with every step on the uneven pavement – but he didn’t altogether care.

Everything was going through his head at once; he was wondering whether Ian was alive or dead, or whether Ian was hurt in any way; he was wondering what his plan was, because at this point, he had come up with absolutely nothing; he was wondering if it was only Terry who had Ian – who knew where he was – or if Sirko was in on it, too – if Okulov already had him on a plane to fucking Russia…

Mickey had never been to Russia, but he would go if he had to.

Mandy was waiting at the bottom of the stairs when he came back through the door, tugging absently at the bottom of her overly-large t-shirt as she watched her brother with furrowed brows, like she knew something was really, _really_ wrong; but despite his sudden disappearance only a handful of minutes before – and the bloody socked feet he limped in with – she didn’t ask questions; Mickey was sure his face was probably sweaty and full of angry resolve, so Mandy would know by nothing more than his demeanor that he didn’t have time for explanations. Without a word he headed straight for the dining table where his keys were, grabbing them with a huff of breath before turning back for the night.

“Shoes, Mick!” Mandy exclaimed, before Mickey could cross the threshold, and he noticed that her voice was tinged with worry as she finally broke the awkward silence, but beyond that, it had an air of something maternal within it – as if she were simply reminding him to take his lunch with him on his first day of school. Mickey stopped at once at the sound of it, turning to eye her calmly, lovingly, before grabbing his boots and sliding them on.

“Stay here,” he said, almost pleading as he pulled his gun from the drawer of the small table by the door. “If I call and tell you to go, you go.”

“Where?”

“Anywhere, just…” Mickey trailed off, straightening himself, trying his best to smile in her direction. “Just call Colin when you get there and he’ll take care of the rest.”

“What about you?” Mandy stepped down onto the floor, her hands reaching the smallest bit outwards as if she just wanted to touch him, but she dropped them almost immediately, not making a move to go any closer; she was scared, Mickey could tell, and maybe she knew – somehow, just like he did – that it was entirely possible that things might not go their way this night, and she may never lay eyes on him again. Mickey ached immensely because of it – but now wasn’t the time for _feeling_.

“I’ll be fine,” he lied, and gave her the finger, because that was enough. She smiled a little, and he scanned her face for the briefest of moments – letting the way she looked embed itself in his mind so he could carry it with him – before he turned, shutting the door behind him as his own darkness reappeared and consumed him in the orange glow of the streetlamps.

Mickey wanted to take the Audi – he wanted to drive to that abandoned garage a few streets over and get it – but even at its closeness, it would still take too much time – time that both he and Ian didn’t have; besides, it was still too obvious a target this early in the game. Instead, Mickey drove the old one as fast as he possibly could, his foot nearly to the floor as he let as much purpose and drive course through his veins as gas through the lines and engine of the car.

He headed south towards the industrial district – even further south than South Side – trying to be as precise, cautious, and careful as was absolutely necessary; but the car was still unfamiliar to him – he didn’t know it like he knew the Audi – and he hated the feeling of impatience growing inside of him as he fumbled awkwardly with the gas and the brake – felt the muscles in his hands tightening as he gripped the wheel harder than he was used to, forcing the car to turn – to merge, to pass – with more pressure, and he felt suddenly like he was in one of those bad dreams where you’re trying to run, but you just can’t fucking get there, no matter how hard you try.

“Come on!” Mickey spat, slamming his palms against the steering wheel – as if that may help push it forward – nearly sideswiping a transport that merged suddenly into the passing lane, right where Mickey was trying to go; the driver honked angrily at him as Mickey slipped quickly into the right-hand lane and passed him in the fastest, most illegal of ways, weaving between the cars on either side of him as if it were second nature, which he supposed it was; the driver yelled something inaudible from the other side of a closed window, so Mickey flipped him the bird.

As he finally neared the southern edge of the city, his phone rang loudly from his pants pocket, and he actually jumped at the sudden sound that pulled him from his deep, desperate thoughts before fishing it haphazardly out. Mickey fully expected to see Colin’s name on the screen – maybe even fucking Terry’s – but much to his surprise and shame, it was Lip. Mickey held the phone in his hand, staring at the screen for a couple seconds, mulling over his options; he didn’t really want to answer it – he knew it wasn’t going to be pleasant, and why should it be? But Mickey wasn’t a coward, and he sure as Hell wasn’t going to shy away from anything now – what was the point in that? He knew he had to take responsibility – for fucking everything – so he answered it, mentally preparing himself for the onslaught he knew was coming.

“I know,” he answered simply, with only a tiny shred of guilt showing, and waited.

“No,” Lip whispered. “No I don’t think you do.” Mickey noticed his voice was cold now, and the panic that had been in his tone at the Gallagher house had disappeared completely, which made Mickey’s hairs stand on end. “I was fine with you and Ian, really I was, because I could see that he was better with you, despite the bullshit that swarms around you Milkoviches like fuckin’ flies…plus you said you were going to help get him out Mickey, but you didn’t get him out, did you? You only got him further into this shit, and I swear Milkovich – I swear to fuckin’ God – if anything happens to my brother, I will kill you myself.”

Mickey felt a breath hitch in his throat at that – at all those words laid out before him like a list of everything he’d ever done wrong in all his years on this earth – and he was almost relieved when he realized that it didn’t even make him feel all that bad; it only made him more focused, and more determined than he’d ever been.

“I’ll fuckin’ let you,” he replied coolly, and hung up, tossing the phone into the seat beside him as he pressed the gas, and he meant it – he meant those four words more than he had ever meant anything in his entire life, because if anything happened to Ian, he would gladly let Lip end him – in whatever way he wanted; and it wouldn’t be because Mickey couldn’t live without Ian – he could survive, maybe; it would be because he couldn’t live with himself.

A minute later his phone rang again from the passenger seat, and Mickey rolled his eyes a little in annoyance as much as in frustration; he figured it was Lip calling him back to finish saying what he had started to, and he _really_ didn’t have time for this shit. Mickey reached out, and was once again surprised – and a little confused – at the name on the screen: it was Sergei. Mickey had almost forgotten the bouncer even existed, simply because _that_ much had happened in such a short amount of time.

“I can’t talk right now,” he spat in answering, and was about to hang up when he heard an audible, quivering breath from the other end.

“Mickey?” a voice asked, and it was shaky, but it was Ian’s.

“ _Ian!?_ ” Mickey’s heart pounded in his chest as relief washed through him like a fucking tidal wave; he was alive, and at least that was _something_. “Where are you?”

“I don’t…I don’t know.”

Mickey held the phone out, glancing at the screen for a second as if that may give him a clue – which of course it didn’t – but he _did_ remember absently whose phone had called him.

“Why do you have Sergei’s phone?” Mickey was speeding now – gas pedal all the way down to the floor – and he didn’t care; since when did he give a shit about limits or laws?

“I uhh…” Ian sniffed, and Mickey thought maybe he was crying. “I think I killed them.”

_Killed them._ Mickey heard the words, swallowed them hard, for Ian’s sake; took a deep breath.

_Them?_ He thought then, choosing to focus on _that_ single word instead of the other, feeling that heat from the anger, annoyance, and frustration turn to ice inside his stomach, and although he didn’t care about Sergei like he probably should – didn’t care about whoever _they_ were – he _did_ care about Ian, and if Ian had done something that was going to ruin him completely…

Maybe he wasn’t crying, Mickey thought absently; maybe he was cold – was in shock.

“It’s okay,” he reassured, but knew it probably wasn’t. “Do you recognize anything around you?” Mickey hoped he was at the warehouse like the note said, but if things had seemingly gone _this_ wrong…

“Umm…” Ian paused, as if looking – searching – for anything. “There’s just pipes and stuff…like…like an old…”

“Warehouse,” Mickey finished, confirming, his heart calming itself the smallest bit as he took the exit so fast that the car nearly flipped. “I know where you are. I’m coming.”

“Don’t hang up,” Ian pleaded then, clearly afraid – or maybe just in need of more reassurance – and the heart inside Mickey’s chest squeezed at just how much Ian needed him.

“I’m not goin’ anywhere, baby.”

They didn’t say anything else as Mickey tore through the graffiti-stained streets in the dark of night – Glock pressed so hard into his sacrum that he was sure there was going to be a bruise where Ian had taken to kissing him on quiet mornings; they just sat, listening to each other’s breath: Mickey’s calm and steady, Ian’s quick and shaky; they needed to be sure of each other – the both of them – and Mickey wasn’t about to let that go, not even as he pulled into the lot.

“I’m almost there,” he said finally, and that relief that had come at hearing Ian’s voice grew exponentially as the dust kicked up behind him, knowing they were almost together.

“I think I can hear you…”

Mickey pulled up behind the warehouse and skidded to a stop, his headlights casting brightly over the shadows at the back, and two black Range Rovers clearly belonging to the Milkoviches parked side by side in the night. Mickey didn’t even bother turning the key and killing the engine, he just got out at once – his feet moving instinctively with anticipation – pulling out the gun and holding it steady as he made his way inside; he didn’t think this was a set-up – it was way too random a storyline.

“Ian?” he called, pushing open the back metal door and snaking his way between the old pipes and empty cisterns that were now full of nothing more than dust.

“Here.”

Mickey glanced towards Ian’s voice – echoing from somewhere near the back – and it was like an air-horn in the fog, breathing hope into nothingness; he eyed that familiar light from the back office – that back office where Grekov had lost more than just his fingers – and went towards it, cautiously checking every shadow, even though he wanted nothing more than to run to him at once, and fuck the dangers.

Finally he came around the last rusted cistern and was in front of the office door; there were two feet sticking haphazardly out of the threshold on the floor, black scuff marks on the cement below them from the rubber toes of the black shoes.

“He struggled for a bit,” Ian said suddenly from behind him, and Mickey whirled at the nearness of his voice; Ian was sitting on the floor against the metal tank, his knees pulled up close to his chest as his forearms rested on top; he was holding his hands awkwardly out before him – idly staring at them –and Mickey saw they were shaking a little, and that there was blood on them. Mickey kneeled down in front of him then, his instincts of love and nurturing overriding those of business as he set his Glock on the floor beside the one that was already there – the one Ian had clearly used – and took Ian’s face into his hands, forcing him to look in his direction.

“Hey,” he whispered, but when Ian didn’t meet his eyes, he said it louder. “ _Hey! You!_ ” Ian glanced up at him then from under dark auburn lashes, the skin on his cheeks wrinkling from the pressure of Mickey’s hands on him. “What happened?”

“I took the gun,” Ian breathed, and Mickey thought his voice sounded a little surer, probably because _he_ was there with him now, holding him.

“From who?”

“From home.”

Mickey’s eyebrows pulled together at that.

“You took one of my guns?”

“No,” Ian wiped the back of a bloodied hand quickly over his nose before wiping the cold sweat of shock from his forehead with the sleeve of his grey sweatshirt. “Well, kinda…it was the gun you gave me, when I uhh…when I went back to Sirko.”

Mickey recalled the memory of giving Colin one of his Glocks to give to Ian, just in case something were to happen when Mickey wasn’t around to protect him. Ian must have taken it with him when he left that night…

“You took a gun to your family’s house?” Mickey almost smiled right there in the buzzing white light that streamed out from the office behind him, the smell of oil and iron suddenly filling his nose – though whether that was from the building itself or from the blood that was beginning to seep beyond the doorframe, Mickey wasn’t sure.

“Yea.” Ian stifled his own laugh then, and Mickey was glad to see he wasn’t crying – that he never actually had been. “I thought, just in case, y’know?”

“Yea.” Mickey did smile then, genuinely, and glanced absently around the room. “I know.”

Ian was alright, Mickey thought, taking in the sight of him; sure he was a little shaky – who wouldn’t be? – but he didn’t seem to be breaking down, having an episode, or spiraling into darkness – in fact, the more time Mickey spent with him, the more Ian seemed to be returning to his normal self, as if Mickey’s presence alone was bringing him back to life – was making him realize that he simply did what he had to do to survive – that the South Side within him – that Mickey’s influence – would always be there when he needed it to, for better or for worse.

Mickey rubbed a thumb over Ian’s cheek then before standing, letting his gun sit by Ian’s feet as an added sense of comfort as he took a cautious step inside the office, making sure not to tread in the pool of blood. Sergei was face-down inside the door – it was _his_ scuffed shoes jutting out the doorway towards Ian; it was Sergei who had struggled. On the other side of the office was another man Mickey didn’t recognize, slumped awkwardly against an empty filing cabinet, the front of his dark blue button-up shirt soaked through with blood where a bullet – maybe two – had entered expertly into his chest, and if Mickey had ever actually doubted that Ian had been in the army, he sure as Hell wouldn’t be doubting it now.

“Are they dead?” Ian asked suddenly, his breath tickling Mickey’s hair as he came up behind him, causing Mickey to look back in his direction; he was almost afraid to meet those green eyes and tell him that – quite obviously – they _were_ dead; he was afraid telling Ian that he had killed two people might be the thing that _did_ break him, in more ways than one – not just his spirit, which wanted nothing more than to help people, Mickey knew – but maybe his heart, or what’s worse, his mind.

“Yea, they’re dead,” he admitted simply, reaching out and setting his hand gently on Ian’s forearm and squeezing it; he felt his brows furrow as he looked at him, waiting for some sort of reaction – for anything – and although he felt his soul ache for Ian, he felt absolutely no sense of regret or remorse at the fact two men were no longer breathing; they deserved it.

“Good,” Ian replied, his voice cold, causing Mickey’s brows to shoot up as he chewed his lip then; that wasn’t the reaction he had been expecting, and whether it was genuine or not – if Ian was putting on a stoic face in front of Mickey – Mickey didn’t altogether know. He wondered absently what had happened in the moments leading up to it, if they had done something…

“Did they…?” Mickey trailed off, not knowing what exactly to say, but he thought his intention was clear enough.

Ian looked at him, his eyes scanning over Mickey’s face before a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“No, I umm…” Ian rubbed a hand through his hair, a finger over his eyebrow. “I didn’t give them the chance.”

Mickey felt a small weight lift from somewhere off his heart – a weight he hadn’t even realized had been there, worrying about Ian’s physical well-being, not just his mental one.

“I’m sorry you had to…”

“I’m not.” Ian’s face was changing now – like the shock was wearing off and logic was slowly beginning to course through his blood and into his brain; Mickey actually watched the South Side within him take control, which he figured was probably for the best.

“It’s done now,” Mickey admitted, and it was the only thing he really knew for sure. What he _didn’t_ know was what to do next; they could run again – find another place somewhere or take the money and head to Canada like they had planned; the passports were being made, along with the birth certificates, and they were already so close to being gone that Mickey could almost taste it.

“Do we run?” Ian asked then, echoing Mickey’s thoughts, and Mickey thought maybe that was the smartest decision, but there was also a part of him that was _really_ fucking tired; he knew it was never going to stop, that this life – that _something_ – would always find them.

Mickey looked at Ian there in the silence of that back room, the occasional flake of dust drifting between them in the light like a falling star, and Ian stood suddenly straighter, as if he already knew, without having to actually ask.

They were done running.

“You have a plan?” Ian questioned, his eyes scanning the room around them as he chewed on his lip in thought, probably weighing out the stupidity of this choice – or whether it was actually stupid at all – and for the first time all night, the answer was _yes_ , Mickey _did_ have a plan.

“We call Terry,” Mickey answered, and he was surprised to find that decision had long been on his mind, and it wasn’t as scary an admission as he thought it was going to be. “We bring Terry to us and hope that we can find a way.”

“A way to what?” Ian stepped forward then, toying absently with the collar of Mickey’s shirt, closing the space between them, and Mickey closed his eyes at the warmth that radiated off of him, like the summer sun on the backs of his eyelids, which Mickey supposed he always had been.

“To survive.” Mickey pressed his face into Ian’s neck then, nudging his nose against his skin just to smell him for the briefest of moments – to let it calm him – before he stepped back and pulled his phone from his pocket, dialing his brothers at once before he could change his mind.

There was a small part of Mickey that was actually questioning them now – their loyalty – and he hated it – hated the feeling of betrayal and doubt that played on the edges of his psyche. Colin and Iggy had been the only other people that knew about Ian – who knew where he lived and who he was – and that small, seemingly insignificant fact was now eating him alive.

“What’s going on?” Colin answered, and Mickey steeled himself at the sound of his voice; if he had his doubts, he wasn’t going to let it show.

“I need a clean-up at the warehouse.”

“Is…” Colin trailed off, and Mickey heard him clear his throat. “Is it Ian?”

Mickey swallowed hard at that – at the thought just as much as the worry he heard within his brother’s voice – and he knew at once that it hadn’t been Colin who had betrayed them.

“No. Sergei and some fuckin’ grunt.”

“Sergei?” Colin was surprised at hearing that name, just as much as Mickey had been, considering the guy was a bouncer and nothing more – he had no reason to be there whatsoever.

“Yea. I don’t know why the fuck he was here.” Mickey remembered absently that Sergei had probably known that he and Ian were together in some way or another, considering he had been there that first time, lingering outside the door like a creep; but that didn’t mean he knew anything more than that; besides, Sergei had always seemed fairly cool about the whole thing…

“Iggy and I will come,” Colin said then, and Mickey heard the tinkling of keys from the other end at the same time he heard the blood rush through his ears at Iggy’s name; _it couldn’t possibly be Iggy, could it?_

“I’m calling Pops,” Mickey admitted then, the decision now set in stone inside of him; he knew Colin wouldn’t like it in the least, but he didn’t have to get involved if he didn’t want to – he could leave Mickey and Ian to their own ridiculous devices and let the goddamn chips fall where they may, but that wasn’t what Mickey was counting on.

“ _What?_ ”

“I’m sure he’s on his way here,” Mickey surmised, his voice quiet and calm. “I’ll send him to our house and meet him there.” Mickey pinched the bridge of his nose, hoping beyond anything that this plan would work. “I’m done now.”

“Mick, I dunno if that’s…”

“It’s over, Colin. Take it or leave it.” With that Mickey hung up and turned towards Ian, who was eyeing him from the doorway; Mickey could see that the look on his face wasn’t one of worry or questioning – it was a look of resolve, and Mickey couldn’t be sure but he thought maybe the smallest hint of a smile pulled up the corner of Ian’s lips at those final words Mickey had spoken to his brother, like Ian wanted to be there to see it all end, and he was going to be a part of it, one way or the other.

“Ready?” Ian asked then, as if the decision had been his and his alone, which Mickey supposed it partly was, because he wouldn’t be doing this if Ian had doubts.

“You know we could die, right?” Mickey inquired instead of answering; he wanted to make sure Ian actually grasped the danger they were walking into – that they were openly and willingly playing with fire – because he knew that despite everything he had gone through, Ian still really had no idea what this life could do.

“Yes,” Ian admitted simply, and his face didn’t change. “So are you ready?”

Mickey smiled then, his mouth pulling up slowly at this abrupt change in demeanor within Ian – this sudden toughness that had always been there, but was suddenly increasing tenfold, and maybe it wasn’t the time or the place, but Mickey found he was unbelievably turned on, and would have taken him right there amongst the blood like they were so used to doing.

“Fuck yes,” he said instead, and Mickey didn’t hesitate; he walked straight past Ian, through the doorway, picking his gun up from off the dusty floor as Ian followed and did the same, both of them strolling purposefully towards the back exit, his waiting car, and an unknown future.

Just as they reached the back door however, Mickey heard the distinct sound of tires on dirt – saw the white beam of LED headlights seep under the crack of the door – and he stopped at once, reaching an errant arm out and pushing Ian back against the wall behind them.

“Terry?” Ian questioned, his voice a poisonous whisper, and Mickey felt his heart begin to race, because he honestly didn’t know, but he really fucking hoped not.

They waited quietly for a moment in the shadows, until the engine finally cut out, and there was the obvious sound of two car doors opening and closing – the mumbling of inaudible voices – and Mickey remembered absently his own car parked haphazardly out there in the lot – still running – and knew it probably looked suspicious as fuck.

“Shit,” he hissed under his breath, scanning the room – calculating – before he looked at Ian, pointing at him quickly before motioning towards a larger cistern across from them in the far corner of the room, trying his best to tell him without words to go there – to hide there – as the sound of cautious footsteps crunched on gravel, closing in on the back door. Mickey knew instinctively they were ready for _something_ , because of how slow they were going – of how quiet those voices had become.

Maybe it was years of military training – the same training that produced the skills it took to shoot a man twice in the exact same spot – but Ian understood at once, tip-toeing his way swiftly between the rust and the steel, sliding into the darkness and disappearing from sight. Mickey shifted himself to the other side of the door, so that he would be behind it when they came; he let his mouth fall open into a small O, carefully inhaling and exhaling his breath as silently as he could, calming the almost imperceptible shaking of his hands that came from readiness. 

The door handle twisted slowly then, the quiet squeaking of old gears and bolts echoing out into the room – it wouldn’t have been that noticeable really, but Mickey had adrenaline coursing through him like fire, making it sound like it was being blown through a loudspeaker; he shifted himself slightly at the sound, spreading his feet further apart and planting himself firmly as he pressed up against the wall at his back as the door opened, the muzzle of a tactical shotgun coming abruptly into view, dim light from the back office glinting off the barrel. Mickey knew from experience that there were two of them – he knew how close they would be to each other; how prepared for this they would be.

But fuck, so was he.

Mickey waited until almost the entire barrel of the shotgun was past the threshold before he stepped forward, wrapping his left hand around it harshly and pushing the gun upwards with a ridiculous amount of force as he came around the open door, causing the gun to go off into the ceiling and a hail of cement and insulation to rain down onto him as he raised his own gun in return with his right hand, pressing the muzzle into the man’s shoulder and pulling the trigger, blowing his blade apart instantly. The man dropped the shotgun – his arm out of commission entirely – before falling to his knees from the sheer force of the blast, and Mickey held onto its barrel as the man fell, pulling the gun from his grasp and automatically tossing it towards Ian, who stepped out of the shadows then as Mickey raised his Glock to the second man, the muzzle pressing hard against the space between his eyes as the stranger did the same to Mickey in return, causing them both to stop instantly and stand there unmoving as dust rained down around them.

They stared into each other’s eyes, the cold steel against Mickey’s forehead causing him to sweat as his breath hitched in his throat, and for a split second he thought that this was it – that it was all about to go black forever – until the shotgun reappeared suddenly as Ian stepped into the threshold, holding it up against the side of the man’s head, finger unflinching on the trigger, and Mickey smiled.

The man shifted forward then, his weight pressing against Mickey the smallest bit, causing the gun to push harder into Mickey’s face – threatening – and Mickey figured he was going to do it anyways – despite Ian’s presence – until Ian mirrored his actions, shoving the barrel so hard into the man’s temple that his head actually cocked sideways, bending awkwardly into his shoulder.

“Don’t,” Ian hissed, and Mickey felt the blood rush through him at the sound of that voice, so fucking sure and unwavering.

“Just fuckin’ do it,” the first man spat from the ground, his arm hanging limp and dead as he tried his best to stem the bleeding with his other hand, which he was failing at miserably, blood still seeping freely out over his fingers and down his knuckles. “Milkovich piece of shit…”

“Please, save your compliments,” Mickey said, letting that smile spread widely across his face, and maybe he _had_ missed this, he thought, just the smallest bit.

Mickey pulled the gun away, holding his other hand out in waiting; the second man eyed it warily, his nose crinkling up as if just the sight of it disgusted him, before finally giving in with an annoyed huff, placing the gun into Mickey’s palm, which he quickly shoved into the space in his belt that was usually reserved for his Glock.

“Your dad is on his way,” the man confirmed suddenly, and Mickey shrugged; this wasn’t news to him – of course Terry would come.

“Yea, no shit.”

“With an entourage…”

Mickey looked up at him at those words, his eyes scanning over the man’s face – searching for any telltale signs of lies – before shifting his gaze to Ian, who looked back at him with just as much unexpected anxiousness as he felt. Yes, Mickey had known Terry would come, and that he wouldn’t come alone, but he figured he would only have his personal security with him – three guards at the most.

“How many?” he asked, rubbing a stiff finger over his eyebrow.

“At least four.” The man stepped haphazardly back out into the darkness, leaning against the front bumper of his car before pulling a cigarette out and lighting it. “Along with someone special…” he added, trailing off and glancing at Mickey with a smirk and a wink, causing Mickey’s blood to run cold.

Mickey had planned for a few men, but not _this_ many, and he actually felt his heart stutter as he began to worry – every possible outcome racing one by one through his mind, and not a whole Hell of a lot of them were good.

“Who?” Ian asked then, stepping forward curiously, and Mickey knew he was probably thinking the same thing – Okulov was with him, or maybe even Sirko.

The man didn’t answer; he just smiled coolly in Ian’s direction, letting the smoke escape his lips as it curled upwards into the night, disappearing almost as quickly as Mickey’s patience, which had vanished the moment this grunt had looked away from him and towards Ian, as if he were nothing.

Mickey aimed his gun then without even really thinking about it, firing two quick shots in unison – directly into the man’s kneecaps – and he slumped down hard onto the ground at once, the smile and the cigarette never even leaving his lips.

Ian shot Mickey a look of surprise, his eyebrows lifting nearly to his forehead as his mouth dropped open, but despite his shock at the outburst, it actually looked like he was maybe about to smile.

“Was that necessary?” he asked sarcastically, and Mickey shrugged.

“Don’t need them following us and joining the fuckin’ party,” he admitted, though that wasn’t altogether the only reason – they had been there for Ian, and it was payback for whatever the fuck they had intended to do him, courtesy of Mickey Milkovich. “Take his phone,” Mickey said, and Ian obeyed without question, reaching into the man’s pocket and pulling it out before shoving it into his jeans.

Mickey turned, walking back into the doorway of the warehouse, looking down at the man on the floor for only a second; he glanced up at Mickey and sat suddenly back onto his ass, leaning up against the wall and pushing his legs out in front of him as if he were just waiting for Mickey to do it, and fuck, at least the people who worked for them weren’t a bunch of pussies.

“Sorry,” Mickey said, not meaning it in the slightest, and did the same to him as he did the first, two loud pops ringing out into the emptiness and the quiet before he bent, sliding the man’s phone from his tight-gripped hands and turning back towards his car, where exhaust was beginning to cloud outwards from the tailpipe as the temperature slowly dropped.

Ian eyed Mickey intently as he passed him, shaking his head quickly – as if dispelling the events of the night – before following.

“Mick,” he hissed as they reached the car, glancing briefly back toward the two men on the ground. “What about your dad?”

Mickey looked over at him then from the driver’s side of the car – as if he hadn’t really gotten to look at him all night – and a secondary wave of relief washed through him inexplicably, as if he were overjoyed by nothing more than the sight of Ian in one piece.

Mickey paused for a moment, considering; he knew Ian was right to worry – if Terry had an entourage with him, they were going to be ridiculously outnumbered; more than that, Mickey knew that Terry wouldn’t hesitate to kill Ian if the chance arose; whether he’d kill his own son however, Mickey still wasn’t sure, but he was willing to take the risk now, for himself as much as for Ian.

No more running.

No more hiding. 

Mickey eyed Ian there through dark lashes, all of his intentions showing clear on his face, he was sure of it, and Ian nodded back at him in return – so subtly that it was almost hard to perceive – but Mickey saw it, and he knew beyond a doubt that Ian was in – he was all the way in, just like they had promised each other that morning in bed, all those days before.

“My brothers will come,” Mickey answered simply, and fuck, he just hoped it would be in time, like he had planned, and that if it _was_ Iggy who had betrayed him, then at least Colin would have his back when the time came.

“This might be a really bad idea, Mick…”

“I know.” Mickey took a deep breath, bobbing his head absently before pulling out his phone and hitting his father’s number on speed dial. “But it’s time.”

Mickey wasn’t sure if his father was even going to answer, but he steeled himself anyways, mentally preparing himself to go against his father for only the second time in his entire life, with nothing more than Ian and a last-minute plan to back him up.

He hoped that was enough.

“How are things, Mick?” his father answered suddenly, and to his surprise, Mickey actually chuckled as he pulled open the driver’s side door.

“Probably better than you think they are, Pops.” Mickey slid inside, waiting for Ian to get in beside him before shifting the car into reverse and peeling out; he had thought about taking one of the Range Rovers, but fuck if he was going to deliver one of Terry’s cars right to him – he was too petty for that; let the old bastard go get them himself.

The phone went dead silent for a moment, and Mickey considered the fact that his father may have actually hung up in him, before he heard him sniff loudly from the other end, exhaling a lungful of cigar smoke.

“I’ll be there in twenty.”

“No don’t bother,” Mickey spat, and eyed Ian beside him; the shifting lights of the streetlamps over his face – so intent on the road before them – reminded Mickey of the very first night Ian had climbed into his car, staring out the windshield as they sped towards the freeway as if there was an entire future laid out there before them, which there had been – they both just hadn’t known it yet – but whether that future would still be there tomorrow, Mickey no longer knew for sure, and the idea scared him more than anything. “I’ll be at home,” Mickey finished, referring to their house in South Side, and he figured that if Terry knew where the Gallagher’s lived, he probably knew where they did as well.

“And where would that be?” Terry asked then, taking Mickey somewhat by surprise, dispelling every notion he had just had that Terry was privy to everything about them; if he had known where Ian lived, but not where _they_ did – where they had been staying together – maybe it _hadn’t_ been Iggy…

“1070 Crestwick,” Mickey answered, smiling at the realization that maybe both his brothers would be there, one-hundred percent. “South Side.”

~

Ian watched the road extending endlessly out before them – felt the headlights from the cars on his face as they passed them in the dark, even though he knew that was impossible. Everything seemed heightened to a degree in which he had never before experienced in his entire life – like every hair on his body was picking up the static of all things around him, living or not.

The killings had been easy in the moment – four tiny shifts of the finger like he had learned in ROTC and it was done – two lives were gone, and they were never coming back. Ian could feel the guilt crashing through him like a tsunami, but what concerned him was the fact that it wasn’t actually guilt from the killings – it was guilt at the fact that he didn’t feel a fucking thing about it.

Ian glanced at Mickey, watching the way his face shifted in the passing lights, drifting over his white skin, and it was as if every glimmer revealed a new emotion – a new hidden thought that was locked away inside that black-haired mind – and Ian could see the gears turning, which gave him hope more than anything else.

As if feeling his eyes on him, Mickey turned towards him, a small smile pulling up the corner of his mouth as he drove – left hand back on the wheel like Ian was so used to seeing – and Ian felt at once like no time had actually passed since the night they had gotten out – like they had never really left it all behind in the first place – and Ian hated the thought almost as much as he rejoiced in the returning chaos – the sudden shift from monotony to insanity.

“You okay?” Mickey asked, raising an eyebrow and motioning towards Ian’s hand, laying carelessly in his lap; Ian followed his gaze downwards, curious for a moment, until he realized what Mickey was getting at: Ian hadn’t held his hand – hadn’t reached out yet to close that gap that was always between them – and Ian smiled despite himself, finally reaching out and intertwining their fingers together, feeling a sudden burst of calm at their touching, like Mickey was _there_ all at once, even though he _had_ been there all along.

“I don’t feel anything,” Ian confessed, and worried that maybe Mickey would look at him differently because of it – like maybe he wasn’t as normal as he tried so hard to believe he was, and that there truly _was_ something wrong with him, like he had always believed.

“You feel everything, Ian,” Mickey admitted, his voice calm, causing Ian’s heart to squeeze as he glanced back at the road. “Sometimes it’s just in different ways. You have the emotional IQ of Mother Teresa.”

Ian snorted at that, squeezing Mickey’s hand gently before Mickey suddenly let go and pulled his phone from his pocket.

“Who you callin’?”

“Mandy.”

Ian watched the way Mickey’s face fell a little at the saying of her name, as if thinking of her might just break his heart, and Ian understood completely; he thought of Lip; of Debbie, Carl, Fiona, and Liam, and wondered absently if they would ever lay eyes on him again.

Mickey sniffed loudly then, once, twice, composing himself before putting the phone on speaker and holding it out casually between them, letting it ring loudly in the silence before Mandy finally answered.

“Are you okay?” she asked immediately, and Ian grinned a little at the worry that tinged her voice, overshadowed only by the love held within it.

“Leave,” Mickey said at once – no formalities – and Ian looked at him then, his eyes boring into the side of Mickey’s face as he heard his tone – felt that cold unknowing that had plagued him for months return to his chest – and the realization that they were driving directly into a shit-storm settled deep into his bones immediately; he had known they were, of course, but suddenly it all seemed… _real_.

“Now?” Mandy asked, her voice abruptly sure and unwavering, and Ian knew beyond a doubt that she was a Milkovich through and through.

“Now.” Mickey hung up – without saying anything more –and Ian steeled himself, his jaw tightening as he watched the man he trusted above all others tuck his phone absently back into his pocket, his eyes unblinking, staring out into an unknown future.

Ian knew he could die tonight – that they both could; he knew he may never see the sunrise again, or get to watch Franny and Freddie grow up on the South Side; yet despite all the people he loved – and all the people who loved him in return – the only thought that was on Ian’s mind, was the irrational realization that he may never get to have Mickey in all the ways he had intended, and somehow, he suddenly wasn’t afraid of the ending, as if the knowledge of having had Mickey at all was enough to define an entire lifetime.

Ian reached blindly out, taking Mickey’s hand back in his own as he gazed out the window beside him, watching the buildings blur past at a rate of speed that only Mickey could go – pedal to the metal, every single time. That’s how they both had lived, and fuck if that wasn’t going to be the way they both went out, too; because Terry was coming for them – a whole fucking entourage in toe – and alone, they didn’t even stand a chance, did they? Maybe it had been a stupid decision, but Ian knew that Mickey had done it for the exact same reason Ian had agreed to it – they had had enough of this life, and now that Terry knew everything about him and his seemingly insignificant little existence, they may as well stop running and give it all they had.

Sure, maybe it was just Terry who would show up at their home – maybe it was Sirko and Okulov, too – but what did it matter?

What was the difference between one kingpin and three?

They were fucked either way.

They pulled up in front of their small brick house after what seemed like a lifetime, letting the car idle for only a moment while they gathered themselves, taking a handful of deep breaths before stepping out into the cool air of the night. Ian glanced upwards, watching the moths that congregated around the glow from the streetlamp, darting in and out of the shadows into the light for the briefest of moments, dancing around each other so swiftly that it was as if they would collide at any moment, but they never did.

“Come here,” Mickey said suddenly, pulling Ian from his wondering, and Ian glanced towards him as if it were the first – and the last – time he would ever behold all that Mickey was. Ian eyed him from head to toe and back again, and noticed absently that the look on Mickey’s face was no longer intense and fiery – it was calm and stoic, as if the thought of the end wasn’t that far from his mind, either.

Ian went forward at once, wrapping his hands around the side of Mickey’s face, tracing his palms back and forth along his hairline – around the back of his head – all the while taking in the faint whiteness of his skin; the almost imperceptible freckles; those dark, playful eyebrows; and he loved him completely, with all that he was.

“If anything happens…”

“Stop,” Mickey interrupted, pushing himself up so his lips met Ian’s, and Ian let him in without hesitation; he kissed him there on the sidewalk – softly, then deeply – their mouths slowly opening as their tongues met in the quiet around them that was broken only by the sound of far-off music and distant firecrackers, and Ian was glad that if something were to happen to them, at least they would be at home – together in South Side.

“You sure this is going to work?” Ian asked finally, their mouths coming apart quietly before they headed up the front steps. Ian knew Mickey was depending solely on his brothers, but _they_ didn’t know that, and that could change everything.

Mickey opened the front door to the faint, warm light of home, and the knowledge that it was _theirs_ filled Ian with something he didn’t think he could ever explain.

“I don’t have fucking clue,” Mickey answered, and knowing it didn’t change a single fucking thing.

They waited in the living room, every passing headlight on the front window making the heart in Ian’s chest pound faster until it eventually disappeared, and he was left once again holding his breath.

Ian hated waiting – waiting for _anything_ to happen – and it felt like hours passed them by before a car finally pulled up that didn’t leave – followed quickly by another – and Ian realized that it had probably only been about fifteen minutes since they had walked through the door.

The cars stayed idling out front for a moment, causing Mickey to get up from his place in the chair – Glock resting absently on his lap – and peer out the thin front blinds before turning back towards Ian and nodding the smallest bit in confirmation – it was them.

Ian got up in answering, his heart thudding so loudly he was sure Mickey could hear it as he pulled his own gun from the back of his belt, and he had never felt more like a Milkovich in his entire life.

“Just stay with me,” Mickey said absently, and Ian didn’t know if he meant now, or forever; either way, Ian wasn’t going anywhere.

“I’ve got you,” he replied, and Ian, too, meant now, and always.

There was the hard sound of boots then on the wooden steps of the front porch, and there was definitely more than one set of them. Ian had been expecting his chest to tighten with anxiety and his nerves to cause his hands to shake uncontrollably – his breathing to quicken as his chest heaved; but instead he was overtaken by a sudden calm, all the thoughts that had been racing through his head for hours now disappearing like breath in the cold as his hand actually steadied around the gun, his finger resting readily once more on the trigger.

Someone knocked absently on the door, which Ian found somewhat amusing – as if the Milkoviches needed permission to be let in anywhere – and Mickey went forward at the sound, eyeing Ian for just a second before he threw back the bolt on the door and opened it.

Mickey stepped back towards Ian instantly, shielding him the best he could as they both raised their weapons at the six men who stood on their front stoop, darkening their doorway like a cloud that brings nothing but fucking carnage, and Ian wasn’t surprised in the least to see that every single one of them was already doing the same – the muzzles of six separate guns pointed directly at Ian’s head – at Mickey’s head – and to Ian’s astonishment, that calm within him didn’t disappear, it only evolved into an almost-euphoric sensation of peace as he realized that there was absolutely nothing he could do about any of it now.

It was no longer up to them.

“Mick,” Terry said, from somewhere in the back of the crowd, and the men on the porch parted like the Red Sea as Terry came forward, crossing their threshold as he eyed them warily, weaving subconsciously from side to side like a boxer, as if waiting for one of them to just get it over with and pull the goddamn trigger.

“Pops.” Mickey took a step back towards Ian, causing Ian’s ankles to press against the stairs behind him, and he stepped upwards onto the first one automatically, giving him a sudden bird’s-eye view of their front entrance and just how fucked they truly were. “Sirko on his way?” Mickey asked then – trying to gauge the situation – and Ian really fucking hoped not.

“This is family business,” Terry answered, and Ian breathed a little easier. “I told them I’d take care of you myself.”

So if it wasn’t Sirko or Okulov, Ian wondered who the fuck this _someone special_ was?

“How did you find out where he lived?” Mickey inquired absently, and maybe it wasn’t altogether important anymore, but Ian could tell it was eating him alive – that it had been all night.

“Sergei,” Terry replied simply, and Ian’s brows pulled together at the same moment Mickey’s did.

“Sergei?”

Terry shrugged, his forehead shooting up in a _who else did you expect?_ sort of way, and beyond the confusion, Ian felt relief at the fact that it hadn’t been one of Mickey’s brothers, like he knew Mickey had been worrying about since Ian had disappeared.

“Something about you referring to that ginger faggot…” Terry pointed a fat, tattooed finger in Ian’s direction. “…as _Gallagher_.”

Ian felt his hairs rise at the sound of his name on those tobacco-stained lips, but he was absolutely certain that Mickey had never made that slip-up, had he? Had he ever openly called him that in front of others? No, Ian was sure that he hadn’t, which only confused him more; but Mickey turned back towards him then, a look of guilt and defeat mingling its way across his face – as if _he_ understood – causing Ian to shoot him a questioning look.

“That first time,” Mickey admitted, his eyes going to the floor as if he were ashamed. “I called you Gallagher, when Sergei was outside the room…”

Ian at once remembered, his face going red right there in front of all the others at the memory: the first time they had been together in that private room at the club – their bodies coming together in nothing more than raw need – Ian had told him he was beautiful – which was all he had really known about Mickey at the time – and Mickey had replied, _‘…you’re not too bad yourself, Gallagher.’_

Ian remembered, and he eyed Mickey then, watching the way his ears pulled back at the realization of his mistake, and Ian wished he would just look at him, so that he could see that – more than anything – Ian wanted him to know that it _hadn’t_ been a mistake – that it had made him feel real in the moment, like he was once again _someone_ , instead of _something._

“So they don’t know where we are?” Ian put in, changing the subject for Mickey’s sake as much as his own. “Or who I am?” Terry eyed him then, throwing daggers with a look of hate, rage, and probably disgust, Ian thought, as if it were a crime for him to even have the nerve to open his mouth in front of him; but Ian didn’t really care, so he added, “Sirko and Okulov, I mean?” just to really drive his point home.

“Milkoviches take care of their own,” Terry replied, snapping his fingers harshly – suddenly – before pointing that errant finger once more in Ian’s direction. “But you’re not a Milkovich.”

Two of the men stepped forward then at the signal, lowering their weapons briefly as they came for Ian, which made Mickey tense – his gun coming back up steadily as he pushed Ian even further back, causing him to nearly fall backwards onto the stairs.

“Don’t even fucking think about it,” Mickey spat, leveling the muzzle at both the men, scanning it slowly back and forth between them, and Ian saw the way his jaw tightened – his knuckles whitened – before he gazed absently at everyone else standing ready in front of them, and was clearly unsure just who in the fuck he was supposed to aim at.

“If you can’t tell, Mick…” Terry motioned around absently before shutting the front door behind him, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to do, and suddenly they were all alone – cut off from the outside world – which made Ian just a little more uneasy. “…you’re fucked either way.”

Mickey sniffed loudly then, but didn’t say anything; Ian didn’t think he needed to – it was obvious to everyone jammed there in that tiny entrance that if they were going out, they were going out fighting.

One of the two men stepped forward again, resigned to the fact that Mickey and Ian probably didn’t really have a choice beyond giving in, but apparently Mickey Milkovich had a different opinion on the matter entirely – and he also apparently no longer gave a shit; he pulled the trigger, shooting the man in the chest as the gun went off with a deafening blast inside the small space, causing him to drop like a stone. Ian felt the wave of electricity and panic that ebbed through the room instantly then at the reverberation – at the _noise_ and the suddenness of it all – everybody tensing like live-wires as almost every single gun in the house immediately shifted towards Mickey; but Ian’s lifted in the opposite direction instead, his Glock moving over the faces of everyone else in his house as he came down the stairs at once, placing himself in front of Mickey now, waiting for just one of those goddamn guns to go off and for it all to be over in a split second; but if anyone was going to die, it sure as Hell wasn’t going to be Mickey.

“Ian!” Mickey huffed, annoyance and worry tingeing his voice as Ian placed himself between the man he loved and the danger.

“You got balls for a little faggy carrot boy,” Terry hissed, but actually smiled a little before nodding in Ian’s direction again, causing two more of the men to come forward, stepping over the still body on the floor; Ian was just going to shoot – like Mickey had – but in the end, Terry was right – they were entirely outnumbered and out-gunned – and if Ian had learned anything in the army, it was to know when to risk it all, and when to walk away; and Ian was going to walk away now, because he would never risk Mickey’s life like that – not because of his impulsiveness; if he could save him, somehow, he was going to.

So Ian didn’t struggle; the men holstered their weapons, grabbing him harshly by the wrists before ripping his Glock from his hands, and the skin under their fingers burned as they twisted unflinchingly, pulling him over towards the kitchen.

“Your son certainly thinks so,” Ian put in then in answer to Terry’s comment, and it was probably a really stupid thing to say, but he couldn’t help it – he could at least be a little impulsive, in only a _slightly_ smarter way. Ian smiled at the look that crossed over Terry’s face, and it didn’t leave his lips, not even when Terry’s fist came out of nowhere and slammed into the side of his jaw, causing it to shift awkwardly and crack a little – like stones grinding against stones – and Ian instantly tasted blood, which began to drip freely from the corner of his open mouth as his smile only widened.

“Ian, don’t.” Mickey glared at him, his eyes pleading as his face tightened – probably at the sight of Ian’s blood and concern for his safety – and despite the pleasure he felt inside of him at his abrasiveness, Ian obeyed, shutting up instantly.

Terry reached out, grabbing Ian’s chin harshly between his thumb and forefingers, squeezing so hard that pain shot through Ian’s shifted jaw, and blood dripped out over his bottom lip; he pulled Ian’s face so close to his own then that Ian could smell the sour tang of cigar on his breath, and see the flecks in his eyes that were almost – _almost_ like Mickey’s

“I won’t hesitate to fucking kill you,” Terry spat, and Ian actually felt the spit on his chin. “The only reason you’re still alive is because I need to teach my son a lesson.”

“Oh ya?” Mickey snorted from somewhere behind him, and Ian could hear the nervousness within his voice at those words – just like the nervousness blossoming in Ian’s chest – but Mickey was trying his best not to show it. “And what lesson’s that, Pops?”

“Put him in the chair,” Terry said, ignoring his son completely, and the remaining men went for Mickey instantly, one of them raising their gun as if he were about to use it, causing Ian’s heart to hammer in his chest for the briefest of moments before they shifted it sideways, cranking their arm back and pistol-whipping Mickey so hard on the side of the head that he fell to the floor like a ton of bricks.

Terry let go of Ian’s face then, and Ian tried his best to turn – to see if Mickey was okay – but the men held him firm, and he stopped struggling altogether as his wrists and arms began to bruise under their pressure.

They dragged Ian into the dining room, forcing him to stand with his back against the island, and he saw that Mickey was out cold at the threshold, blood seeping out onto the floor from a deep gash at his temple, and although Ian had assumed that this would all be quick and easy – one way or the other – he wasn’t prepared for whatever _this_ was – neither of them were.

He hoped more than anything that Colin and Iggy were actually going to come, despite the gamble Mickey had taken by not actually telling them that he had a plan – and that the entire thing depended on them and them alone.

A couple of the men hooked their hands under Mickey’s arms, hauling him across the floor – his feet dragging awkwardly behind him – and up into a chair at the table, turning him so he faced outwards into the room. One of them walked casually passed Ian then and straight into the kitchen, pulling the charging cord from his Bluetooth speaker before binding it tightly around Mickey’s wrists behind him, holding him firmly in place as another tied cords around his ankles, attaching them to the legs of the chair, and Ian felt all at once like he was in a fucking movie.

“Wake him the fuck up,” Terry hissed, motioning towards his son before eyeing Ian. “And make sure he’s watching.”

Ian felt his resolve start to waiver – start to falter under the weight of the situation; _he_ had expected to receive the brunt of Terry’s rage, but not Mickey; Ian could deal with pain and darkness – he’d been doing it for years – but he didn’t think he could deal with Mickey’s.

One of the grunts went back into the kitchen then, grabbing a glass from the cupboard and filling it with water before striding back into the dining room and tossing it directly into Mickey’s face, droplets cascading down his skin, mingling with blood as it dripped down onto his shirt. Mickey flinched a little, his head lifting in a slow half-circle before his eyes finally fluttered open, causing Terry to lean forward and slap him gently on the cheek, waking him all the way up.

“The fuck…” Mickey sighed, wincing as the pain from the open wound in his head clearly began to sink in to his skull and his bones.

“You’ll wanna be awake for this.” Terry turned, jutting his thumb towards their SUV’s parked casually on the front curb. “Go get her.”

At the word _her_ Ian and Mickey eyed each other – warily, cautiously; _everyone_ was going through his head in an instant – everyone’s names and faces: Fiona, Mandy, Debbie, fucking _Franny_ – and the panic was gladly beginning to take over that feeling of calm that had consumed him at the thought of his own imminent fucking demise.

A man Ian actually recognized a little from the club disappeared out the front door then, leaving it open for a moment – allowing the cool night breeze to drift in as if it were a regular late-spring night – before suddenly reappearing a moment later, strolling nonchalantly into the room, a woman Ian had never seen before hot on his heels; she came in through the front door, closing it gently behind her before following the man into the dining room, where they all just stared at her as if she were the second coming of Christ himself; her hair was dark and a bit of a mess – her makeup a bit too bold for her face – but she was pretty nonetheless, Ian thought, and she looked very much like she really didn’t want to be there in the slightest.

“This is Svetlana,” Terry introduced, wrapping an arm around her shoulder and hugging her in close to his side, smelling her cheek for a moment before kissing it; Svetlana feigned a smile, staring absently at the floor, and Ian thought maybe she was trying to figure out how to kill every last one of them.

“And?” Mickey huffed, his eyes glancing over the woman as if sizing her up for a fight, which Ian thought he may as well have been; the blood was beginning to ease from his temple, drying into crusted flakes on his cheek and his chin, and Ian also thought that he looked pretty tough strapped haphazardly to that chair, despite the way his voice cracked the smallest bit, which Ian was sure only he noticed.

“And she’s going to fuck the faggot out of you.” Terry pushed Svetlana forward then rather unceremoniously – as if offering up a prized pig for the slaughter – and Ian felt the heat rising within him – up his chest, into his cheeks – and he knew he was flushing an angry shade of scarlet as he watched Mickey’s face fall – watched his eyes go suddenly empty and absent – before glancing towards Ian with the most profound look of apologetic regret that made Ian struggle _hard_ against the tightened grip of the men that still held him, his and Mickey’s eyes meeting as Ian’s flesh began to bleed from the bruising burn of skin-on-skin as the woman shrugged carelessly out of her purple shirt – bare breasts coming into view in the soft light of the kitchen – before she fell to her knees in front of Mickey – _his_ Mickey – reaching out for his belt with shaking hands, which made Ian only struggle harder.

“ _Don’t!_ ” he yelled – as loud as he could there in the half-full room with a voice that was choking on a sob – and he wanted more than anything _not_ to have to fucking watch this – just as much as he knew Mickey didn’t _want_ it – but he couldn’t’ look away.

Mickey smiled at him then the smallest bit, and although it was faker than the one that had been on Svetlana’s face, it was still something glorious there in the chaos.

“It’s okay,” Mickey whispered, his face steeling suddenly – his lips pressing together – as Svetlana got his pants undone and her hands suddenly around him. Mickey looked immediately away from Ian at her touch, and Ian felt his heart sink as Mickey stared straight down into Svetlana’s eyes, as if she were suddenly the only thing that mattered – as if all the answers to how they could get the fuck out of this were hidden somewhere within them; as if it were suddenly her, and not Ian himself, who could hold him together.

Ian felt the bile rising in his stomach at that – at how she worked her hands slowly against Mickey – burning its way up his throat, right along with the tears that threatened from nothing more than pure, unadulterated rage; and maybe – despite everything – the smallest hint of jealousy.

Svetlana bent forward, wrapping her lipstick’d mouth around Mickey’s tip right there in front of fucking everyone, and Ian had never wanted to hurt people – to _kill_ people – more in his entire life; and it wasn’t just because Mickey was his, but because he could imagine what Mickey was feeling – Mickey, the stoic, unwavering criminal from South Side who never let anything break him; but Ian was altogether worried that this just might.

Ian looked away, glancing up towards Mickey’s face – if they were going to make him watch, then he was going to watch nothing more than that beautiful fucking face.

Suddenly though, as if in contradiction to his thoughts – as if Mickey knew subconsciously what Ian was thinking – Mickey smiled, and it was genuine this time, his lips pulling back from ear to ear, and he actually started to laugh as he stared down at the woman.

Ian felt his brows furrow as he stared – _what the fuck was so funny?_

“Don’ think she’s my type,” Mickey snorted then, looking towards his father, and Ian tore his eyes away from Mickey’s once more, risking a cold glance down at Svetlana’s mouth and hands, which were desperately trying to make him hard – to turn him on in any way whatsoever – and Ian smiled then, too, as he realized that it really wasn’t fuckin’ working.

_That’s why he looked away_ , Ian thought absently, feeling the bile recede and his resolve hardened as he looked at Mickey – if he had been looking at Ian, Ian knew that it would have worked – he would have gotten hard by nothing more than the sight of him.

Terry stood straighter suddenly, his forehead pulling back in anger at his son’s words, and he stepped forward, abruptly grabbing onto Svetlana’s shoulder and pushing her aside with so much force that she fell over onto the floor with a rather loud thud that reverberated throughout the floorboards, and despite where her mouth had just been, Ian still wanted to help her.

“Give me the fuckin’ ginger,” Terry spat, looking towards Ian with an outstretched hand, and Ian felt the breath quicken in his chest – felt his hairs rise.

“No,” Ian hissed, and he didn’t struggle this time – he just looked back into Terry’s eyes and tried his best not to fucking blink.

The men let go of Ian’s arms then as Terry stepped forward, wrapping a huge, weathered hand so tightly around the back of Ian’s neck that it caused his jaw to tighten and pain to shoot up into his temples as he pulled him harshly forward, shoving him so hard that he fell down onto his knees in front of Mickey.

Mickey started to fidget then in response; Ian could see the muscles in his forearms tightening as he squeezed his fists unforgivingly – unintentionally cracking his knuckles – and Ian knew that he was thinking – was panicking the smallest bit – as he looked down at Ian on his knees in front of him – as he had been a thousand times before – and they both knew without a doubt that Terry wanted Ian to do what Svetlana couldn’t.

“Do it,” Terry spat, and the disgust in his voice matched the look on his face as he leaned back against the wall, probably bracing himself for what it was going to be like to watch his son get hard at the touch of a guy.

But Ian wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.

“Fuck you,” he replied, sitting back hard on his heels with a quiet huff of breath. Ian had already made his decision long before this moment – he had made his decision right after he had pulled that trigger in the warehouse, when Mickey had looked at him with decisive eyes and he had known that they would give it all, or absolutely nothing.

Ian would die, sure – he could live with that, so to speak – but he would _never_ do this, not for anyone besides himself, or Mickey.

Terry eyed one of the men, tilting his head in the briefest of ways, and the man stepped forward, grabbing the back of Ian’s head and shoving his face down into Mickey’s crotch – directly into his soft cock – and Ian could feel the warmth of his skin against his cheek – could smell him – and despite the insanity of everything around them, the smallest bit of warmth still managed to spread throughout him at that scent, and if Ian couldn’t help it, he worried that neither could Mickey.

Out of nowhere, Ian had the sudden, ridiculous urge to laugh, mostly because he didn’t know what else he was supposed to do; it just kind of came out maniacally – like everything that was happening and everything he was feeling was converging together within him, and he couldn’t actually believe that _this_ was his life now, which apparently made him want to laugh instead of sob, and also maybe proved just how crazy he was – how crazy he had always been.

Suddenly the hand let go of his head, and Ian sat up, noticing the softness of Mickey’s belly moving as he, too, chuckled quietly at Ian’s stubbornness, causing their eyes to meet then in the awkward silence, and the way Mickey stared down at him from above – like he was so used to seeing in different circumstances – made Ian absolutely positive that if they looked at each other like that for a moment longer, it wouldn’t matter how many people were there or who the fuck was asking – they’d do it anyways, just because they needed to.

Thankfully – as if he knew – Mickey looked away then towards his father, who reached behind him at once, pulling his Glock out and stepping forward, pressing the cold, steel muzzle against the top of Ian’s skull, and Ian at once felt acceptance and peace wash through him like the opening of floodgates; if this was it, at least he would die looking up at the man he loved – with his scent inside his nose, still warming him long after his body had gone cold.

“ _Pops_!” Mickey yelled, and his eyes were at once frantic – desperate – causing the heart in Ian’s chest to tighten. Terry pulled the gun away, chambered a round, and put it back to Ian’s head, and Ian could feel the slight shift in pressure as Terry laid his finger on the trigger. “ _OKAY!_ ” Mickey screamed suddenly, his voice so loud that Ian flinched, actually finding more fear in his tone than the gun pressed against him. “He’ll do it.”

Mickey looked down at him then – there in the warm light from the chandelier above the dining table – and his eyes were so blue – were so full of pleading – that Ian almost felt himself give in, because _of course_ he would be doing the same if the situations were reversed – if he were about to watch Mickey’s life end – his blood splatter out all over their old hardwood floors – he would be doing everything he possibly could to keep that from happening, as he already was; but this wasn’t Mickey’s choice anymore – it was his, and his alone.

“No Mick, I won’t.” Ian smiled up at him then, and it was genuine – it was a smile so full of love and happiness that Ian almost cried at how whole he felt in the moment; it was a smile to let Mickey know that maybe it was too late for him, but he was going to go out on his own terms; it was a smile to let Mickey know that he would have made love to him a million times over and over again, but not like this – _never_ like this – and if it cost him his life, so be it; because Ian was done living by everyone else’s rules, and when it came to the one thing he cherished most – the love that he placed before all others – he would gladly die knowing that he never did anything to taint it – that he never let anyone else define who they were. If Mickey lived, somehow, at least he would know that – at least he would know that Ian would rather let Mickey live alone with the memory of everything good that they were than both of them survive with the scarred recollection of what had happened every time they did nothing more than look at each other.

Ian knew what it was like to live with regrets and shadows smudged onto the corners of his life, and he would never want that for Mickey.

Ian didn’t let that smile waiver the smallest bit – that smile that said: _I don’t blame you, I never have, and I was better because of you, baby._

~

Ian wasn’t going to give in, and Mickey knew it – he had always known it. Ian wouldn’t let anyone ruin what it is they had had, and despite Mickey not giving a flying fuck if they tried, he knew Ian wasn’t going to let it happen if he had the choice, and he _did_ have the choice, and Mickey fucking hated him for it.

“Don’t do this,” he said, and heard his own voice break the smallest bit as he stared down at that smile on Ian’s lips that said so goddamn much, but he didn’t want Terry to hear it – didn’t want him to have that satisfaction – so he sniffed loudly to compose himself, and went straight for what he knew would maybe make a difference. “What about Lip?” he asked, and Ian’s face did change then – Mickey saw his eyes widen a hair, his ears shift back. “Freddie? Franny?” There was no point in keeping them a secret now – Terry already knew, and what more could he do about it? All Mickey wanted to do was bide his time – waste as much of it as he could and fucking _hope_.

Beyond that hope though – which was beginning to wear incredibly thin – was the idea of Ian dying right then and there in front of him, and the knowledge of what Lip – what all the Gallagher’s – would do when they found out, and Mickey managed to actually smile then, remembering Lip’s promise to him, and fuck, maybe he and Ian wouldn’t be apart for all that long.

_Sickness, health, good times, bad, ‘til death do us part, all that shit._

Terry shifted forward suddenly, clearly realizing that none of this was going to work, and Mickey felt all the air leave his lungs at once, and he no longer cared who had the satisfaction of what, because none of it fucking mattered.

They were out of time.

“I love you,” Mickey whispered, his voice cracking as the tears welled up into the corners of his eyes, and he looked down at that porcelain face, knowing full-well it was about to shatter into a thousand pieces on the floor, and every cell within him broke in return, as if all of him had always belonged to Ian, and always would.

“I love you,” Ian replied, quietly, but with more self-assurance than he had ever said those words before, and Mickey simply nodded; he couldn’t bring himself to say anything else, he no longer had the air to even breathe, but Ian closed his eyes then in answering and Mickey knew that he was already aware of all the things he would never be able to say – he always had been.

The gun went off then with a flash and Mickey squeezed his eyes shut at once at the closeness of its sound – squeezed his eyes shut to the reality he couldn’t actually comprehend – flinching as he felt the warmth of blood splatter across his face – across his skin – and he bit into his lip _hard_ to keep from fucking screaming.

The floorboards shook as a body fell harshly against them, and in his mind Mickey refused to accept anything anymore, so he kept his eyes closed to the world, shaking his head as if trying to wake himself from this nightmare as the cold sting of iron and blood entered into his nose, and he did nothing more than recall that last image of Ian’s face looking up at him – seared into his mind behind his eyes forever – and remember his final words of _I love you,_ already beginning their eternal playback…

“Mickey…” someone whispered then, a hand resting suddenly on his thigh, and Mickey’s eyes flew open at the sound, his heart nearly hammering out of his fucking ribcage as he saw Ian there in front of him, still looking up at him with beautifully content green eyes, except now there was blood covering half of his face; Mickey worried for just a moment that it was Ian’s, before he noticed Terry slumped on the ground in front of him – wedged between them as he always had been – a massive hole blown into the back of his head, causing Mickey’s blood to turn to ice.

Mickey looked down at his father for only a moment, letting his death sink deep within him like lead – lead that might always be there – before returning his gaze to Ian’s intent face – those eyes scanning over Mickey as if worried what exactly his reaction might be; but Mickey honestly felt nothing more than the sudden excitement that came with freedom – like the thousand pound weight that had plagued him his entire life had suddenly disappeared, and he could move again. Mickey leaned forward at once, his wrists pulling against the cord wrapped around them as he let Ian’s lips meet his own in quick, desperate relief, and a single tear rolled down his cheek as he tasted Ian’s familiar blood in his mouth before he finally pulled back and glanced towards the front entrance.

Colin was standing in the doorway, his gun still raised to head-height as he stared absently off into nothingness where their father had just stood, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he had just done. Iggy was behind him, half-shielded by his big brother’s body as he looked unblinking at Terry, his mouth hanging open the smallest bit.

The grunts all had their guns drawn, each one now pointing directly at Colin.

“Colin?” Mickey managed, eyeing his brother with caution, causing Colin to shake his head suddenly and look towards Mickey with a sudden resolve that actually set Mickey’s teeth on edge.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Iggy said abruptly, stepping out from around Colin and placing himself between their eldest brother and the guns pointed in his direction. The men eyed him for a second – eyed Terry’s body on the floor – and Mickey watched their faces – watched the way their demeanors changed in an instant –and they lowered their weapons, re-holstering them so quickly it was as if nothing had even happened.

“Untie him,” Colin demanded at once, and the men didn’t even hesitate.

Mickey felt his heart pounding inside his chest as he looked at his brother then, feeling the grimy hands of the grunts at his wrists and his ankles as they undid the cords, and Mickey was suddenly reminded of a National Geographic special he had watched once about wolves – because before him now was the most primal form of evolution, etched into every one of them, somewhere deep beneath their bones – it was change at its base level, in its purest form: the change in hierarchy, when the Second makes the boldest of moves and at once becomes the Alpha, and nobody is left to question it.

Nobody dares question it.

As if in answering, Iggy stepped aside, taking his place absently – subconsciously – on Colin’s left, and Mickey stood at once, placing his hand gently on Ian’s shoulder in reassurance before grabbing his Glock off the table, striding over to his eldest brother, and placing it against his chest, right over his heart.

“It’s all yours,” Mickey said, and he meant it. “Whatever you say, I’m all in.”

Colin eyed him, a small smile pulling up the corner of his mouth as he took in his brother’s words. Mickey didn’t know if Colin had yet realized that he had hoped for this outcome – that he had planned on it; because Mickey had known that Colin would always choose his brothers over their father, and yea, maybe Mickey had hoped that Colin would be the one to kill him, because despite the despicable nature of it all, it _had_ to be Colin.

Colin grabbed the gun from Mickey’s hand and pushed it back towards him.

“You’re not in,” he said, and Mickey felt like air as another weight was lifted off his shoulders. “You’re out.” Colin looked around at the men in the room then – _his_ men. “He’s out,” he said to them, and he meant it. “Mickey’s out, and it’s done.”

~

Ian didn’t think about anything else as he moved inside of Mickey, his hips thrusting forward slowly, patiently; he just closed his eyes, letting the water from the showerhead cascade over his aching body as he pressed deeper, pushed harder, feeling Mickey close around him like a vice, causing Ian to bend forward and press his face against the skin of Mickey’s back, opening his mouth and biting at him absently – tasting the salt of him mixed with water – and it was the most glorious thing he had ever experienced.

Right now they didn’t need to think about Sirko or Okulov, or what they – along with all of Chicago – were going to do when they found out that Terry Milkovich was gone from this world; all they needed to worry about, as always, was each other.

Mickey reached a hand back absently, tightening it around Ian’s thigh, pulling him into him, and Ian wrapped an arm around his waist in return, gripping him with enough force that he could rock him back onto his dick, sending warmth and electricity throughout his balls and his stomach instantly, pulling him closer and closer to the edge.

Ian wasn’t sure how to categorize this sex – wasn’t sure in what way he was having Mickey now; he didn’t know if this was sex in mourning; if this was fucking at the mere pleasure of being alive; or if this sex was a near-death experience; but with the way Ian’s heart was hammering at the moment – the way everything tightened within him as Mickey moaned against the tiles – he was almost positive that it was the latter.

He smiled to himself at the thought, a breathy laugh escaping his lips – hot against Mickey’s flesh – as he increased his speed, suddenly reaching the tipping point; and as Mickey grunted from the pressure and the fierceness of Ian inside of him, Ian came, hard, everything leaving his body at once, and he was left with nothing more than a single, out-of-place thought:

That he had been right. On that night Mickey had left him, when all had seemed hopeless and dark, he had had the sudden, errant thought that it would be Colin – not Mickey or himself – that would save them in the end.

And he had been right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, that was a doozy!  
> -I am thinking of doing the next chapter as a one-off from Colin's perspective, because I think it's important for the story. What do you guys think? Is that something you would like to read, or should I continue with Ian/Mickey's PoV? Let me know!


	13. Colin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Colin deals with the aftermath of their father's death, and wonders whether he has what it takes to become the man he needs to be for his family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your patience! I am back at work so writing has been slower than it was during lockdown! But I am steadily working away, always!  
> This chapter is written entirely from Colin's PoV, and I hope you love it as much as I loved writing it!  
> There is some brief violence.  
> There may also end up being more than fifteen chapters total...I am currently drafting my way around an ending!  
> (Also this story is not for Cheaty McCheaterson’s - you know who you are!)  
> As always, feel free to follow me on Twitter @WhatsaMattavich for updates, excerpts, art, and random one-shot stories!

Colin knew what he had done – he had known he was going to have to it do the minute Mick had called to tell him he was going to phone Terry and put an end to everything; but just because he had known what he was going to have to do didn’t make it any easier – especially when he considered the fact that it had been Mickey’s intention for Colin to kill their father all along; it had only taken him a millisecond to come to that conclusion when he had heard Mickey’s voice from the other end; and although he almost resented Mickey for the position he had put him in, Colin knew that it was going to happen one day anyways – one way or another; Terry was never going to go out on his own terms, and Colin had always known that if it came down to it, it _had_ to be himself who pulled the trigger, because it was his rightful place in the family; he had been preparing for it his entire life, and in a way, he thought, so had Terry.

Despite the body on the floor – the gun that was still hot in his hand – Colin had given Mickey his freedom without punishment or judgment of the plan he had laid out before them; not just because he was his baby brother; not just because Colin would kill Terry ten times over again for any of them; but mostly – irrationally – because Mickey had decided enough was enough; he had done what Milkoviches do best, and taken it into his own hands – for himself as much as for the man Colin knew he loved – and had decided to end it on his own terms – not just _his_ terms, Colin thought, but _theirs_ – his, _and_ Ian’s.

And that was more than Terry had ever done – the selfish, egotistical bastard that he was.

Colin glanced at Ian then, who stood from where he still knelt on the floor – half covered in their father’s blood – and took Mickey into his arms, patting a hand over his hair and brushing it away from his face – making sure he was still in one piece – before kissing him quietly, causing Colin to look away, as if that wasn’t a moment anyone else should be privy to.

“You okay?” Iggy asked then, turning into him quietly – arms folded – so that nobody else could hear, and the sound of his voice gave Colin the smallest respite.

“The fuck do you think?” Colin craned his neck to the left, to the right, so he could hear the bones crack within it, steeling himself as he prepared to take on absolutely _everything_.

“Sir?” A voice questioned suddenly, and Colin turned automatically despite the unfamiliarity of the title, causing a jolt of pain to go through his leg where Mickey had shot him, but it was secondary, considering.

 _Sir_ , he thought absently. _Fuck_.

‘ _Boss_ ’ he was used to, but _Sir_ …

“What?” Colin raised an eyebrow at Dretov, one of his father’s personal security guards, and Dretov just stared back at him silently, an inquiring look passing over his face before he glanced at Terry’s body, as if waiting for something.

“Colin,” Iggy put in then, placing a hand reassuringly on his shoulder and squeezing gently, raising his eyebrows at him, providing Colin with the nudge he needed to realize absently and all at once that he had to make the decisions now, and he had to make them quickly.

“Right.” Colin slid his Glock back into the holster under his suit jacket – he had been at the club, holding it down while Terry had gone on ‘business’; if only Colin had known then just what his _business_ entailed, he would have taken care of him right there in that smoke-filled, mahogany office – called the entire thing off – and things would be a whole lot better than they were now; because now there were two dead bodies on Mickey and Ian’s hardwood floors – one of whom was not just their father, but Sirko’s partner, and one of Chicago’s biggest moguls; apparently there were also dead bodies at the warehouse – but just how many, he didn’t know. “Call the cleaners,” Colin added, only somewhat surprised at the assuredness he found in his voice; he had been born for this – he had always known it – and now nobody in the world could question him; but despite this, he _was_ questioning himself, and whether he was ready, or if it was even what he truly wanted at all; but this wasn’t the time or the place, so he looked at Iggy instead. “I need one team at the warehouse,” he said, “and another here within the hour. Pay them double, I don’t care.”

“Two bodies at the warehouse,” Mickey put in then, turning away from Ian, but staying close to his side as he always did, even if he wasn’t aware of it. “Another two still alive but…”

“But what?” Colin raised an eyebrow.

“You’ll need the doctor,” Ian added, and for a second, Colin forgot that he hadn’t always been there – hadn’t always been a part of _this_ – just another Milkovich, finishing Mickey’s sentences.

“Right.” Iggy nodded, turning for the door immediately before pausing at the threshold and turning back to their eldest brother. “I’ll meet you in an hour or two?” he asked, and Colin knew what he meant – there was business to handle now – plans to make – and a fucking lot of them.

“Yea, at the club.”

Iggy nodded, waving an errant hand at the rest of the men left still living before all but two of them followed, Colin’s personal security waiting patiently by the door for their new boss; Colin knew they wouldn’t dare leave him alone, but at the moment, he really didn’t want anyone else to be there.

He needed time, and he needed space.

“Take the girl,” he said to them, eyeing Svetlana, who was still half-naked, cowering in the kitchen by the fridge, where she’d been since she had watched Terry’s brains get blown out onto the floor by his own son; and Colin couldn’t be one hundred percent sure, but he thought she almost looked relieved, and rightly so.

“We should stay with you for…”

“No,” Colin interrupted, eyeing them with the authority he now solely possessed. “You can meet me at the club after. Take her home.”

The men didn’t ask anything further, they just went for Svetlana, grabbing her shoulders gently before walking her towards the door, but not before Colin reached an errant hand out, grabbing her forearm gently before picking her shirt up off the floor and handing it to her, allowing her to slip it back on so she could leave with some form of dignity.

“Whatever you want, it’s yours,” he said to her, knowing full well he wasn’t going to kill her, like she probably had expected after witnessing this shit – like Terry would have done; but she wasn’t a threat – she was a born and bred Russian hand-whore, loyal ‘til the end. “If you want out, I’ll get you out.”

Svetlana eyed him, mascara running down her face from the sweat that ebbed from her forehead and the tears that threatened in her eyes; but despite the shock and the suddenness of everything, she smiled the smallest bit before nodding in agreement and heading out the front door.

Colin didn’t even know what fucking time it was anymore, but it was dark out – it was late, he knew that much – and the sudden quiet that echoed throughout the house as the door finally shut to the last man made the tiredness seep into him like water through a crack.

“I should probably go have a shower,” Ian said then, glancing absently at his blood-soaked hands before eyeing Colin, a look crossing over his face that screamed guilt, which Colin knew wasn’t just guilt at what had transpired, but guilt at what Colin had had to do for his sake, and guilt that he was still standing there in front of them both, their father’s brains in his hair.

Colin nodded at him, trying his best to smile just a little to let him know that he didn’t blame him in the least before he tilted his head towards the stairs, urging Ian to go, and Ian seemed to understand; he looked back at Mickey, knowing the brothers needed a moment alone, because despite Ian’s abrupt acceptance into this family, it still wasn’t his place to squeeze his way into Milkovich business.

“Just give me a second,” Mickey whispered, squeezing Ian’s hand before letting him go and Ian placed a single kiss at the centre of his forehead before turning and heading up the stairs, stepping carefully over the pools of blood so he didn’t trail that chaos up to where they slept.

Even if Mickey had planned this all from the get-go, there was still no bitterness or feelings of fault between them there in the silence of the house – Colin didn’t think there would – or could – ever be anything like that between them, not with the life they had been given, no matter how many bad things they did.

Mickey eyed the floor, his hands on his hips as he chewed on his lip – like he did when he was unsure or nervous – and Colin bit his tongue to keep from smiling at the way the look of guilt on his face was so similar to Ian’s, like every burden they had, they shared.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he put in, causing Mickey to glance up at him through dark lashes that looked exactly like his own. “You did what had to be done.”

“So did you.” Mickey raised his head then, staring at Colin with sudden determination and an unwavering demeanor, as if trying to convey that he should feel no guilt or shame, no sadness, and in his mind should only be thoughts of the imminent future that now belonged to him and him alone.

“I know,” Colin replied, and that was the truth – he _did_ know.

Mickey wiped a hand absently over his face then in what looked like relief, tiredness probably seeping into his own bones as he rubbed off flakes of his own drying blood – blood that was mingled with the darker, wet splatter of their father’s – before looking down at his palm – at the smeared mess – as if still trying to come to terms with the fact that that was all that was left of Terry Milkovich.

“You okay?” Colin asked, softening his voice as he was prone to do with his younger siblings, and was genuinely worried, despite him knowing exactly how they all felt; he didn’t have to wonder at it, but he asked anyway, because it was his job.

“You should go find Mandy,” Mick answered instead, ignoring him completely, which Colin knew was just his way of saying _no, I’m not okay, not yet_.

“She’s alright. I told her to go to my place.” Colin thought suddenly of their sister for the first time all night, and wondered absently how he was going to tell her, and how she was going to take it; he knew she wouldn’t be sad about it, but knowing her, she would also probably find fault in Mickey’s actions, simply because it had put them all in the line of fire unknowingly, though both Iggy and Colin would never actually see that as betrayal, simply necessity.

“Good.” Mickey glanced up the stairs then as the sound of water rushed through the pipes in the re-done walls – Ian had turned on the shower, and the look on Mickey’s face was one Colin knew well: he needed to be up there with him – to be sure of him – because there was only one person who could make Mickey whole again – could make him _okay_ – and it sure as fuck wasn’t Colin.

“Go,” Colin smiled, tilting his head back towards the second floor. “I’ll come by tomorrow…or later today…fuck I don’t even know what time it is. When Iggy and I have figured this shit out, I’ll come.”

Mickey eyed him, the guilt never completely leaving his face, but it ebbed just a little as he nodded without saying anything else, padding his way lightly up the stairs towards his safe place.

Colin watched him go, until the bathroom door closed behind him, he disappeared from sight, and Colin was left truly alone, for the first time in what seemed like his entire life. Setting his hands on his hips, Colin closed his eyes to the bodies on the floor and the deafening silence around him, and simply breathed, letting a silent apology float upwards into nothing towards their father as the air filled him like a fucking balloon for one second, then two, before he composed himself completely and opened his eyes once more, and everything was back to business.

Colin didn’t want to go to the club, not yet at least; with Iggy organizing the clean-up – thinking his own thoughts, probably – he knew he had time to spare, and Colin really needed to do some thinking of his own; so he got into the last Range Rover parked at the curb outside of Mickey’s place, pulling slowly out into the darkening night, his mind drifting from one thing to the other – his car drifting haphazardly from one side to the other – and he tried his best to grasp every single thing laid bare out before him, but there were really only two things he thought he knew for certain: one, that he now had to do everything in his power to prevent a war that may come whether he wanted it to or not; and two, that now, he was King.

At that last thought, he realized absently that echoing repeatedly from somewhere deep within his psyche – beyond every obstacle and challenge he now faced – was the single phrase that had kept him going since Mickey had walked up those stairs to Ian; that had held him together since he’d pulled that trigger and killed the man who had raised him: that every king needs a queen, and now, he needed his.

Colin pulled his phone out – far enough away from the chaos that he could risk it – and scrolled absently to her name in his contact list, where she was saved simply – inconspicuously – as _M_.

Hesitating for only a moment, he finally hit the call button.

She was probably sleeping, he knew – she was always asleep this late on a Saturday; she worked the early shift on Sunday mornings at Northwestern Memorial, where they had met – 6am on the dot – but he didn’t altogether care; he needed his own safe space; he needed to hear her – needed to _see_ her.

Colin just hoped she’d let him.

“Everything okay?” she answered at once, her voice soft and breathy, and he knew he had woken her, just like she had awoken him, all those years before.

“Sorry it’s so late I just…”

“It’s okay.” She grunted a little, as if she were sitting up in bed, and Colin could imagine her doing it – her long pale arms pushing her weight up in the dim light that glowed soft on the northern edge of the city.

“Could I come over?” he asked, but knew he had no right to; he had promised to stay away – had promised that to _her_ because she had said it was too hard when he was always there in her peripherals and never right in front of her, like she wanted him to be; but sometimes on rare occasions – despite his absence and inability to commit because of all that he was – she knew just as much as he did that they needed each other.

Her breath came quietly for a moment from the other end as she pondered the weight of what it would mean to see him again, and Colin knew that nothing could prepare her – could prepare either of them – for what it was he actually had to say, and he felt bad because of it.

“I’ll unlock the front door,” she answered finally, before abruptly hanging up, and Colin pressed the gas a little harder, heading north as his heart quickened the smallest bit and his nerves sent static throughout him at just the thought of seeing her.

It had been nearly ten months since the last time.

Colin brought her back to his mind’s eye as he drove, imagining her stepping lightly out of bed in her white tank top and pajama shorts, the small tattoo of an orchid peeking out on her sacrum in the moonlight; he imagined her treading lightly down the carpeted stairs, unlocking the door and waiting there in the warm glow of the lamp for him to come; and he imagined the way her red hair would shift a little in the breeze that came in with him through the open door – red hair that was so much like Ian’s…

Yea, maybe every king needs a queen, but Colin thought absently of Mickey then as the images of red hair flickered behind his eyes, and he realized that maybe sometimes, some kings just needed another king, and that was just the way of the world, because at the end of the day, all is fair in love and war.

Her house was a small two-story in Roscoe Village, not far from Wrigley Field; it was white with a small front porch, nestled in amongst the other houses that all looked the exact same.

The street was dark, every home shut up for the night, but that lamp was on in the front room of her house – just like he’d known it would be – and Colin smiled to himself as he went up the front steps, the door opening for him before he even had the chance to knock, and there she was – his Mimi.

“Hey,” she sighed, her face pulling up into a soft smile as if seeing him again somehow made all the troubles in her small little world disappear, and Colin wished the sight of her could do the same for him; but instead he glanced up and down the street out of instinct, looking for any perceived threat that may linger before closing the space between them and hugging her tightly, breathing her into his lungs.

“Hi, babe.” Everything within him wanted to lift his head an inch or two and touch his lips to hers once more, but that was no longer his move to make – it was hers, and he hoped that she would do it – eventually – before he walked out of that house for what he already knew was probably going to be the last time.

“Come on,” she sighed, holding onto him for just a second longer before pulling away and holding the door open for him before she closed it, bolted it out of a similar instinct, and followed him into the living room, flopping down on the couch beside him. “Tell me.”

Colin leaned forward – elbows on his knees – and scratched the back of his head absently; he trusted her completely – he always had – but this, this was something he still didn’t know how to say out loud, despite the minutes that were still ticking by.

“I umm…” he trailed off, glancing out the front window as a car passed by in the night, and he watched it to make sure it kept going, trying to find the right words.

“Colin.” Mimi reached out, placing her small hand on his thigh, causing his heart to hammer as he looked back at her. “Who?” she asked then, voice quiet, and Colin didn’t know if he was pleased or horrified that she knew from experience that someone else was dead – that he had taken another life.

He looked at her then, studied her pale face in the golden glow of that lamp – the way her auburn lashes batted against her cheek as she waited patiently – and if he was going to confess to anyone, it would be her.

“I killed my dad.”

It was the first time he’d said it out loud – had admitted that truth to a single soul – and he felt his breath hitch in his throat for a second as the words came tumbling free, and he was surprised to find that there was just as much relief mingled within them as there was disbelief.

Mimi sat back hard against the couch, a deep breath escaping her lips as she eyed him – as she took in everything those four little words actually meant – and Colin steeled himself.

“So…” she stopped, pulling her legs up underneath of her body as if she were suddenly cold, trying to make herself as small as possible to keep herself whole and warm. “You’re like… _it_...now?”

_It_. Colin smirked at the word – it was as good a word as any, he supposed.

“Yea. I’m it.”

Silence fell between them for a minute; then two; before Mimi finally sat forward, reaching out and holding Colin’s face in her cool hands and turning it towards her; Colin rejoiced at the sudden closeness, letting her breath drift its way across his lips as the blood within him raced into places he was trying really hard to avoid.

“So is this the end?” she asked, and he could see the worry that ebbed into her eyes. “Or is this the beginning?”

That was it – when it came to the only love he’d ever known, Colin only had two simple choices laid out before him, which he’d always known there would be when the day finally came; he had the power now to make every single decision – as the head of the Milkovich Empire, he could do absolutely anything he fucking wanted to, or, he could do absolutely nothing at all; he could choose to get out if he wanted to, finally, and be with _her_ – because there was nobody left alive who could stop him now; he could say the words – give the command – and Iggy would take over, and he could disappear forever, with Mimi by his side, never once having to look over his shoulder.

Or, he could give in completely and become the man he knew his father had wanted him to be, just maybe a slightly better version – at least, that’s what he hoped.

There was no in between anymore, because the queen would never be safe while the king ruled, and if anyone knew that well, it was the Milkoviches.

Colin had always known what his choice would be – but he hadn’t actually realized that until he was in the car, driving to Mimi.

“It’s the end,” he admitted, and swore he felt her hands go colder before she pulled them away at once, her face hardening like stone as she glanced anywhere but at him.

Colin didn’t want it to be the end, he wanted it to be the beginning – the beginning of absolutely everything, just like Mickey and Ian were so close to having; but there was a colossal difference between himself and his younger brother – there always had been, and there always would be: Colin had a job to do, and it wasn’t to run a kingdom – to sell drugs, launder money, own businesses in the heart of the Windy City – it was to protect everything he held most dear, because now, he was the only one that could – the rest was simply necessity; he had that power and had it completely, and there was absolutely nothing in the world that would make him give that up – that would make him let that go; because if he stepped away and all Hell broke loose – if he stepped down and something happened to Iggy, to Mickey, or fuck, even Mandy and he could have done something about it, he would never forgive himself.

No, Colin was choosing family over love, because that wasn’t only his job, it was his right and his privilege to do so.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, and felt the heart within his chest squeezing against the emotions that clawed their way up his throat, holding them back so that it would maybe make it all the smallest bit easier for her.

The time that had passed between their meetings had been unwelcomed – spaces of time that Colin had hated but had still allowed to grow longer and longer as the years went on – but despite this, he was thankful for it, because it felt like maybe those gaps in their story were making the decision easier on the both of them, like the love that had once consumed them had faded slightly as the days passed them by, and Colin wondered absently if maybe he would never be able to love as much as Mickey did; but he supposed it didn’t matter now, because he was never going to get the chance to find out, and he was – surprisingly –okay with it.

“Probably for the best you don’t come over anymore,” Mimi confessed then, turning to look at him, and there were tears on her cheeks, glinting in the light as they trailed their way off her jaw.

“I couldn’t’ even if I wanted to. Too many eyes on me now and I won’t…” Colin sniffed, holding back a breath. “I won’t risk you like that.”

A hiss of air escaped her nose then in amusement, and her face broke the smallest bit – a smile pulling its way across her lips.

“I hate that you’ve always cared so goddam much,” she huffed, but reached back out, laying her hand on his knee. “It makes it so much harder to hate you.”

“You love me,” Colin admitted simply, knowing it was the truth, and he smiled in return, causing hers to only widen.

“I’ll always despise you for it.”

“I know.”

Suddenly she was across the couch, lifting her leg up and straddling his lap in the half-light, her entire body pressing into him as her lips met his, and it was everything he thought he needed it to be in the moment. She tasted like toothpaste and everything he could have had, and the knowledge of it honestly gave him pleasure, not heartbreak, because he knew he was giving this feeling – this _choice_ – to the people he loved most, and _that_ was everything he _actually_ needed.

Colin stood, holding her tightly in his arms as she wrapped her legs around his waist and he carried her back up the stairs, their mouths never leaving each other as he mentally counted the steps he knew by heart, turned left at the landing at the top, and walked directly into her room, laying her gently on the pink floral sheets before looking down at her pale skin in the white glow that seeped in through the windows, and he wondered errantly if maybe he had always been so accepting of Ian because he reminded him in a way of Mimi – a red-headed stranger who stepped into his life and changed it for the better – gave him something he never realized he needed – and was now giving him the strength to walk away, because she was the one who had given him the strength to know how to choose what was best in the first place.

Less than an hour later he was pulling up to the Club, the satisfied smile that had been on his face since he had left Mimi’s disappearing instantly at the sight of the old building and the knowledge of what he was about to walk into.

The front-of-house security eyed him briefly as they always did when he approached, holding the door open for him casually and calling him _Mr. Milkovich_ as he strolled through, completely oblivious to the night’s events. None of them would know yet – not security or the grunts, at least; it wasn’t their right to know things first.

Iggy was already seated at the table in his usual spot – which Colin supposed now technically belonged to Mickey – cigarette dangling from between his lips as he picked absently at his fingernail, waiting. Tommy was there, along with Forsythe – the accountant who kept the laundering books deep behind the scenes, only showing his face when absolutely necessary. Sitting beside him were Ivan and Andre, the Milkovich cousins that had buried the fucking grunt who had shot Mickey at sea and operated the other clubs in town; and finally, standing around the perimeter of the room like grey omens of death were the heavyweights, every single one of them – twenty-two in total – double-strapped and jammed into that cigar-dank room, and there wasn’t a solitary, beating heart there that wasn’t now Colin’s responsibility.

Colin breathed – standing outside the open door for a single second – and he felt it tremble in his throat the smallest bit.

It wouldn’t take a genius to know something had shifted, Colin knew – not with all of them there like that, called in so late at night; and as if in answering, they all eyed him intently as he finally stepped into the room, every single one of them standing at his sudden presence, as if he were the newly crowned King of England, not just the newly crowned King of Chicago.

Colin went forward, staring at the leather chair that sat empty at the head of the table and hesitating for only a moment before striding directly over, pulling it out, and sitting down into it, letting both himself and the cushions adjust to this new weight as he sunk down into them, rising to his rightful place.

The men around the table stayed standing – a sign of respect and courtesy – until Colin finally eyed Iggy on his right, and tilted his head, motioning to the empty chair on his left, silently commanding his brother to also take his rightful place by his side. Iggy stared back at him, brows furrowing, and it almost looked to Colin like he was surprised at being given the honour of being his Second, though Colin had never once thought that there was another choice.

Iggy stepped around the head of the table then and sat – a tiny smile playing on the edges of his lips – and when he did, the rest followed, sitting – one by one – down the chain of command until they all had their arms on the table, ready to work.

Colin, too, was ready, despite everything; he always had been.

“My father is dead and Shea Sirko is going to have questions,” he started, leaning back in the chair and tapping absently on the mahogany table. “Questions to which he can never know the honest answers to. Right now it’s all about damage control, and where we go from here…”

“So what’s the story?” Tommy asked, interrupting him with a patronizing tone in his voice, and the look on his face was equally condescending – doubtful, almost, as if he didn’t believe Colin was half the man Terry had been; Colin knew Tommy would always be loyal to whoever sat at the head of that table – no matter the circumstance – but he didn’t have time for the uncertainty and the superiority complex – it was no longer his place, especially right there in front of everyone.

“You want to ask me that again, Tommy?” Colin leaned forward slightly, his brows furrowing as he asked him the question with as much patronization as Tommy had granted him, and everyone at the table glanced across in his direction.

Tommy got the hint.

“Sorry, Sir,” he said, swallowing his pride in front of everyone. “What’s the story?” This time it came out curious – with nothing more than wondering at what had come to pass, and Colin tried not to smile.

“The true story Tommy is that I planned Mickey’s betrayal,” Colin admitted, and all the eyes in the room shifted back towards him at once at the admission. “I helped him,” he continued. “I took a bullet for him, and now he’s out; and if any of you have a problem with that, you better put your own bullet in me right this fuckin’ second, because what’s done is done, it’s not changing, and what’s important now is dealing with the fallout of my father’s death and the consequences should those truths I just spoke come to light.”

Colin eyed the men at the table – the men around the room – and waited; he saw Iggy’s hand shift slightly towards his Glock, anticipating one of them to make a move, but none of them did.

“Good.” Colin sniffed loudly, leaning his arms forward then on the table. “Now that the truth’s out of the way, we focus on the lies.”

Iggy glanced at him, chewing his lip a little.

“And what are the lies?” he asked.

Colin had thought long and hard about this – had been thinking about it for weeks now, in case this exact scenario came to pass; just like Mickey, it’s what he was good at – planning, organizing, preparing; and in the end, he had settled on the only logical lie that made sense.

“Terry found Mickey, he went after him, and Mickey killed him, so…” Colin trailed off, eyeing his brother, who raised a questioning eyebrow. “So,” he continued, “I killed Mickey.”

“Mickey’s dead?” Tommy excalimed, forehead pulling together a little before leaning back in his chair, and Colin wasn’t sure if he meant metaphorically or for real.

“For all intents and purposes, yes, Mickey is dead. That’s what Sirko and Okulov need to know – need to believe.”

Nobody outside that room could ever know it was Colin who had pulled the trigger and killed Terry Milkovich – they couldn’t have their loyalty questioned like that – _never_ like that – especially if they found out he had done it for the sake of his traitorous brother…

“And how are we gunna get them to believe that, exactly?”

Colin rubbed a hand over his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose, waking himself up the best he could at the early hour of morning; he didn’t even have the energy to look at the clock anymore.

“We call the tattooist, find a grunt with small hands and fat little fingers willing to lose one for…I dunno…half-a-million in cash? No questions asked.”

There were a few low laughs from around the room, and Colin still didn’t know whether it bugged him that discussing such things didn’t phase him, or whether he rejoiced in it – in the disconnect he could conjure when he needed to.

“They’re gunna want heads,” Ivan added then, scratching absently at his rounded Milkovich chin before glancing at his twin brother.

“Or the bodies…”

“I know,” Colin admitted, and had been considering this, too, for a while now. “We’ll give them Terry’s but…”

“They’re gunna want Mickey more than Terry,” Iggy interrupted, leaning back in his chair, and if he hadn’t been his Second, Colin would have chastised him.

“Yes, I know Ig. I’m just going to have to talk them out of it.”

“How?”

“By doing what I’ve always been good at.” Colin stood up then, laying his knuckles on the tabletop and leaning his weight against it, feeling the power he now had in his tired body.

“And what’s that?”

“Telling lies.”

Colin didn’t know if this little fact bugged him, either; but he kind of thought that it didn’t.

“And what about the redhead?” Iggy asked, and though it would be almost impossible for Colin to forget about Ian altogether, at this point, he almost had.

“He’s gone, missing, dead, in the wind, whatever – Okulov isn’t going to care at the end of the day, is he?”

“Give him another escort in exchange?” Forsythe put in then, and the sound of the accountant’s voice was so unfamiliar that Colin had to look over to see who had spoken. “As reparation…”

“Fuck no.” Colin was all about good business, sure, but not human trafficking; escorting was one thing – being forever in control and protecting your assets, seeing them as a resource only increasing in value; but selling people like cattle into that hectic bullshit for a one-time profit was never going to be a part of _his_ business, even though he had known Terry was thinking about dipping his toes into that tainted water. “As long as Mickey is dead,” Colin added, “the problem is solved. End of story. If he wants to argue about it, let him – this is Chicago, not Moscow.”

Iggy smiled at that – they all did; this was _their_ city, so just let him try.

There was a grunt standing awkwardly in front of them less than thirty minutes later, being informed of what exactly was being asked of him by the new head of the Milkovich Empire.

 _No, not asked,_ Colin thought. _Told_.

Colin noticed right away that the grunt was taller than Mickey, but his hands were just as thick, weathered, and scarred, and he fit better than any of the others that had been presented to him; not that Colin thought Sirko or Okulov would know what Mickey’s hands looked like besides the tattoos but, he wasn’t taking any risks.

“You’ll be out as soon as it’s done, half-a-million in cash.”

“I can’t stay?” he asked. “In the business, I mean?”

Colin smiled – he appreciated the loyalty.

“We can’t risk anyone ever seeing that missing finger,” Iggy replied, and hopped up onto the now-empty table.

The man just stared straight ahead, mulling it over for a second – chewing the fat of those words – as his head bobbed from one side to the other, until he finally made his mind up.

“Okay.”

“Good.” Colin strode to the door then and opened it, allowing the doctor to come in – the same doctor who had stitched him up only a few weeks before. Colin always wanted to call him Ned out of habit – Ned, who had worked with them for so long that Colin had just assumed he would always be around to stitch them up; that was until Mickey had decided out of the blue that he was no longer a good fit for the family, and what Mickey says usually goes so…

“Won’t it be kind of…” the man started, pointing an errant finger at the Doc. “…suspicious to have a surgically-removed finger? And a fresh tattoo?”

Colin snorted at that, and was actually a little sad they had to get rid of this grunt – he seemed smart, like he could easily work his way up the ladder and become someone he almost fully trusted.

“He’s not removing it,” Iggy answered, pulling his pocket knife out from his inner jacket and holding it up with a smirk. “He’s just here for aftercare.”

Colin rolled his eyes and shot his brother a look, but fuck, there was no point in beating around the bush with this.

“And we’re going to do enough of a butcher job that the freshness of the ink isn’t going to make much of a difference,” he added. “Trust me.”

“Fuck.” The grunt rubbed a hand over his face then, letting a long hiss of air escape his lips as he composed himself, before striding directly over to the table, promptly sitting down, and laying his right hand up on top of the mahogany, eyeing the tattooist waiting patiently in the corner.

“Marnie’s done all our tattoos for as long as I can remember,” Colin admitted, glancing at the older woman – covered from head to toe in ink – trying to maybe make the situation a bit more comfortable, which was probably impossible.

“Every Milkovich that ever was,” she replied, taking the seat across from the grunt and eyeing him with a smile before glancing back at Colin. “Which finger?”

“Left middle?” he answered, but posed it as a question to Iggy; he thought the dash between Mickey’s ‘U’ and ‘UP’ was more distinguishing than the letters themselves.

Iggy was quiet for a second, chewed his lip.

“I think it should be a letter…”

Fuck, Colin didn’t have time for this.

“Make it a million and you can take one of each,” the man answered suddenly from the chair, causing Colin to shoot him a look, and the corner of his mouth to pull up the slightest bit.

A million in cash was a lot of fuckin’ money, but not to the Milkoviches; and besides, what other choice did Colin have?

“Done,” he spat, and walked over, holding his hand out for the man to take it – to shake it – before it would probably hurt too much to do so. “I’m in your debt…” Colin paused, realizing suddenly he hadn’t even gotten the man’s name.

“Damon,” the grunt answered, quietly, and looked up at him then from where he sat, his face going serious, and Colin knew it was because Damon perceived the weight of those words – of what it meant to be indebted to a Milkovch– and Colin also knew Damon would probably have given up both his hands – not just his fingers – for just those words, and those words alone.

It meant more to him, because he knew the importance of loyalty and respect.

“Left middle finger,” Colin said finally, addressing Marnie. “And….”

“Right ring finger,” Iggy finished. “Leave him with something usable.”

Marnie nodded, at once pulling the small metal table towards her and pressing the pedal for the tattoo gun, sending a familiar buzzing whir throughout the room.

“One U and one dash coming right up.”

Damon was probably the same age as Mandy, and it _did_ bug Colin the smallest bit as he watched him bite hard into the leather belt he had taken from around his waist and shoved between his teeth, Colin and Tommy each holding one of his shoulders, pinning him in place as Iggy sharpened his knife slowly and methodically.

“That’s my cue,” Marnie said suddenly, zipping up the last of her bags before strolling towards the door, warily eyeing the knife.

“Your payment is there on the table,” Colin replied, tilting his head towards the envelope by the door, which she took before leaving, quickly closing the door with a somewhat impending thud, leaving the rest of them to do shady shit behind it.

“You ready?” Iggy said finally, grabbing onto that newly-tattooed right hand, which was splayed out straight as a board, every tendon and bone clearly showing from the strain and the nerves.

“Just fuckin’ do it.”

Iggy didn’t even hesitate, he grabbed tight onto Damon’s ring finger and laid the knife into it at the base – as close to the knuckle as he could get it – and there was only the small sound of grinding and a crisp clack as the knife slipped through skin and bone and hit the tabletop, and a small puddle of blood began to flow freely from the severed digit.

Damon didn’t even make a sound – he just tensed, bit _hard_ into the belt between his teeth, and pressed his eyes closed so he didn’t have to see.

“Move,” the Doc said immediately, causing Colin and Tommy to let go of Damon at once and step aside as he came around them, instantly stemming the blood and doing whatever the fuck it was he had to do to stay sane.

Iggy picked the tattooed finger with the black U on it up from off the table and handed it to Colin, who reached out gingerly – as if he may break it – and took it by the tip, grinning the smallest bit. Marnie had watered down the ink, making it more of a grey than black – the colour of a faded, healed tattoo, and Colin was surprised just how good it looked.

“Fuck it up,” he said, giving it back to Iggy, who took it with a devious sort of grin before laying it back on the tabletop and cutting into it – over and around the tattoo – so it looked like a proper hack job.

When he was done, he tossed it carelessly back to his brother for approval, who eyed the smears of blood and knife marks cut into the table and made a mental note to get a new one brought in.

“Wrap it up,” Colin said, finally handing the finger to Tommy. “And put it in a box.”

Tommy simply nodded at his direction before turning and disappearing from the room.

Iggy glanced towards the doctor, scanning over Damon’s hand and the second finger with the black dash they knew was coming off next.

“Let me know when we can get the other one,” he said, wiping the knife – the blood – onto his jacket before strolling over to sit down in one of the chairs in the far corner of the room, and Colin followed, settling into the winged-back seat across from him.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, listening to the grunts and hisses of breath that came from the table as the doctor disinfected Damon’s wound; stitched him up; took care of him in whatever way he possibly could in a downtown office with no help whatsoever.

Colin tried not to look in their direction; he didn’t want to show too much sympathy – he couldn’t, not anymore – and besides that, he didn’t really _feel_ any; he was simply doing what had to be done, he knew, but once again that sensation of not knowing if he should rejoice in his feeling nothing, or be worried about it, racked him entirely.

“Am I crazy?” he asked suddenly, not sure exactly where it came from, and eyed his brother, who leaned back in his chair in answering, swinging a leg up casually over the arm as he stared back at him.

“No.”

“You think I’m cut out for this?”

Milkoviches never talked about how they felt; it was just a well known fact to each of them that they didn’t really need to – it was considered weak almost, and unnecessary; but despite Colin’s age – his role as the protector and head of the family – he found he needed reassurance now – in some sort of way at least – and Iggy, Mickey, Mandy….they were the only ones that could give it to him – could give him the perspective and the clarity Mimi never possibly could.

Iggy looked away, sniffing loudly in the awkward space between them, but it looked like he was thinking at least – like he was trying to find _something_ to say – and _that_ at least _was_ something.

“You’ll be better at this than dad ever was,” Iggy admitted suddenly, taking Colin somewhat by surprise, and he felt the corner of his mouth pull up.

“Yea?”

“You care more than he did…”

“Isn’t that a bad thing in this business?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why?”

“Because.” Iggy sat up then, leaning forward so he was closer to his brother – so he could speak in a lower tone without the fear of others hearing. “Because it means you can make better decisions, Colin. It means you can make smarter ones. We’re already an empire, sure – dad made that, and we have to thank him for it despite him being a piece of shit, but you…” he trailed off for a second, glancing at his shoes so he didn’t have to look Colin in the eye as he expressed any sort of emotion. “You could own the world.”

Colin stared at the top of his brother’s head, a thousand thoughts rolling suddenly through his mind, and he narrowed them down to a single point like he was good at – honing in on the fact that those words didn’t actually deter him – didn’t make him feel like less of a person; those words actually _excited_ him – made his heart beat faster within his chest; because at the end of the day, Colin _had_ been born for this, and despite the downfalls, the crime, the shady lifestyle that so many would frown upon, he _lived_ for it – more than that, he _wanted_ it. That’s why he had chosen this life over Mimi – it wasn’t just because he held loyalty – to his family – above all things; it was because he fucking _needed_ it. He needed this life, thrived in this life, and like fuck anyone was ever going to take his place at the head of that godforsaken table.

Of course it would be Iggy to remind him of that, because Iggy knew him – they all knew each other, which is the same reason he had let Mickey out without a fight; because Colin knew that Mickey wasn’t cut out for this life; sure, Mick could survive it – he could thrive in it if he wanted to – because he has what it takes to make it – he’s a Milkovich afterall; but just like Mandy, Mickey has always cared – cared in a way that Colin and Iggy would never be blessed with beyond family. No, Mick and Mandy needed something more from this life, which is why Colin wasn’t surprised in the least when he had found Ian in Mickey’s bed that far-off Thursday morning; but Colin and Iggy needed nothing beyond this room, these four walls, their guns, and each other.

“He’s all yours,” the Doc said then, pulling them both from their contemplations, and Colin stood up at once, a sudden resolve ebbing its way through him, and he felt like he was taller somehow, like he took up more space, and he supposed he did – metaphorically at least.

“You ready?” he asked Damon, grabbing onto his shoulders without hesitation, and didn’t really care whether he was or not, because there was work to do.

Damon didn’t answer; he just shoved the belt back between his teeth and bit in hard as Iggy did what he did best.

The sun was rising, it’s rays bursting gold through the windows, causing the office – full of mahogany and shiny things – to glow like it was burning, and maybe it was his tiredness, but Colin glanced around, and thought it was kind of beautiful.

There was a small black box on the desk in front of him, and he fingered it, twirling it gently, around and around, eyeing it as Iggy sat silently across the table from him, tired head in bloodied hands. It was just the two of them now, and it was quiet, despite the streets beginning to bustle below, none of those people the wiser to the night that had just passed in the office above them.

“So I’ll set up a meeting for tonight, then?” Iggy asked finally, standing up from his chair, stretching his muscles and his bones, a few of them popping in the silence.

“Yea. Tell them nothing about Terry though, that’s my job.”

“Of course.” Iggy turned for the door, ready – finally – for home – for sleep – before stopping abruptly. “What time?”

“Eight.”

Iggy nodded at his brother, a small look of understanding – of acceptance at their places in the world – passing between them briefly before he opened the office door and disappeared from sight, and Colin caught a glimpse of his two personal security guards – still standing watch on the other side of the door – before it closed.

Colin needed sleep – he felt he needed it more than anything – but he still opened the small box one last time, eyeing the bloodied, severed, tattooed fingers that were now going white from blood loss and death, and felt the cold rush through him at the black U inked onto one, and the black dash on the other as he realized just how much they looked like Mickey’s, and as he finally left the office – got into his Range Rover to let his security take him home to Mandy – he had to keep reminding himself that they weren’t.

Mickey and Ian’s place was remarkably inconspicuous, and Colin didn’t think he would ever get over it as they pulled up out front later that evening; it suited them – the both of them – but it was also so far from the life they had grown accustomed to that he found it almost comical that Mickey Milkovich – Mickey with the penthouse suite and Audi – was currently holed up with his lover in South Side, surrounded by questionable people, grime, and crime…

_Shit_ , Colin thought with a snort. _Maybe this life_ isn’t _all that different_.

“Hey,” Mickey greeted, opening the door for him, and Colin tried to smile a little, motioning for his security – swapped out with two fresh faces as he had slept – to stay on the porch, which they did without question.

Ian was in the kitchen making dinner, and at least they looked rested, Colin thought, even if he himself wasn’t in the least after only five hours of sleep and some toast.

“Hey!” Ian exclaimed as Colin came around the corner, a ridiculous smile pulling up the corners of his freckled mouth, and Colin thought that the both of them looked happier, too – freer – and he supposed he had himself to thank for that. “You staying for dinner?”

_You staying for dinner?_ Colin almost laughed at the words – so normal, so _homey._

“Nah, can’t.” Colin sat at the dining table, flopping down hard into a wooden chair, and Mickey slid in beside him at once, glancing back over his shoulder towards Ian as if checking in on him – like he always seemed to do subconsciously – and Colin was glad Mickey had found him, despite the shit storm their love had caused.

“Mandy?” Mickey asked, no formalities, and thumbed his temple in worry.

“She’s fine, she’s at the apartment.”

“And?”

Colin knew Mickey wanted to know the plan; he could get out of the business, sure, but he would never be able to not know the plan.

“And she’ll be staying here for good but…” Colin trailed off; it made sense for Mandy to stay now – she had nothing to be afraid of anymore; Terry wasn’t here – wasn’t hovering, controlling – and in all actuality, she had no ties to the Milkoviches whatsoever; fuck, she may as well not even have a name, she was that unknown to their partners in crime.

“But we have to go…” Mickey finished, causing Ian to look up over the rim of the glass he was drinking from.

“I have a meeting tonight with Sirko and Okulov at eight. We came up with something to throw them off – hopefully put the whole thing to bed but, I have no idea how it’s gunna go and we can’t risk anybody seeing you, not for a while at least.”

They had to go to Canada like they had planned, at least for a little while.

Mickey nodded to himself, gnawing at his lip as he took this in – of course Mick had always known they were going to have to go no matter what, but this may decrease the timeline by a lot at least, and Colin hoped that was something.

“So what did you come up with?” Mickey asked then, raising one of his dark eyebrows as Ian strolled around the island, taking a seat in the chair beside him, just as much a part of this now as he had been since day one.

Colin admired him for it – admired his resiliency. He reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out the box, setting it on the table and sliding it across to his brother.

Mickey eyed him for a second before reaching down to lift the little lid, his eyebrows nearly reaching the ceiling as he took in the sight.

“Jeesuuus,” Ian spat, his forehead creasing into deep lines, causing Mickey to snort.

“So what, I’m dead?” he asked, and the smile on his face actually made the heart in Colin’s chest slow a bit – gave him reassurance.

“You’re dead, and so is Ian for all anyone knows.”

“I’m dead, too?” Ian looked almost affronted, and Colin snorted at that.

“You’re both pushing up daisies man, and everyone who needs to know it will know it.” Colin sat back then, preparing himself for the hardest part of the conversation, which he knew was coming. “But umm…” he started, but trailed off, not knowing how exactly to say the words.

Mickey must have seen the look that crossed over his face, because he got serious then, leaning forward the smallest bit as his hand moved automatically closer to Ian’s, like he did it without realizing it – like their bodies were constantly searching for the other’s presence, just to be sure of each other.

“What?”

Colin took a deep breath.

“I’m going to need the Audi.”

There was immediate silence after that, and Colin had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing as Ian flopped back in his chair, his lips pressing together in a hard line as he tried with everything he had to keep from bursting; it was such an inconsequential thing, but not to Mickey, and they both knew it.

“ _You want my car_?” Mickey looked as if Colin had asked him for one of his lungs.

“No, I _need_ your car.”

“Why? You have my fucking fingers!”

“They’re not _your_ fingers, Mick! Besides, you’re leaving the country, you aren’t going to need it…”

“And,” Ian interrupted then, leaning forward to place his chin on Mickey’s shoulder as he looked lovingly up into his eyes, batting his lashes in a way Mickey would probably make fun of but actually couldn’t resist. “I’m pretty sure we can buy another one…”

Mickey let a harsh huff of air escape his nose as they ganged up on him, his arms crossing over his chest, and Colin could tell he was pissed; but after a moment of Ian on his shoulder, he finally stood up, walked over to the side table, and pulled out the matte black key fob; he eyed it for a second as if it were his only child – which Colin supposed it was – before strolling over to him and slamming it down angrily in his outstretched hand.

“Just please, for the love of fuck,” Mickey spat. “Don’t tell me you’re giving it to Okulov…”

Ian’s face went rigid then as well, as if the thought of giving something with so many memories held within it to that fucking Russian was just as bad as actually giving Okulov Ian himself.

“No, I just need it as added proof,” Colin admitted. “Everyone knows how much you love that fucking car so, whatever I can use to convince them, I’m going to use it.”

Mickey sat back down with a huff and crossed his arms back over his chest; once again chewing on his lip that Colin was sure was going to start bleeding at any time.

“So when will we be leaving then?” he asked, changing the subject, and Colin didn’t like the answer he had, but knew it was for the best, and that it would be coming eventually.

“Couple days at the most. I’m still waiting on the passports and birth certificates but, they should be ready in the next day or two.”

“Still Canada?” Ian put in absently, and got up, heading back to the kitchen to check on whatever was cooking in the oven, sending waves of warmth and smell throughout the house.

“Still Canada.”

“Cool.”

Colin took the box back, pushing the lid down snuggly before sliding it into his jacket pocket and standing up.

“Hey Ian?” he sighed, eyeing him thoughtfully from across the room as Ian turned to glance back towards him.

“Hmm?”

“Go see your family tomorrow. It may be the last time you’ll get to for a while.”

Ian stood a little straighter at that – his resolve hardening – but nodded anyways, and Colin could see the emotions that crossed his face as plain as day, as if they were written on that pale skin in permanent marker.

“And you?” Mickey questioned, a sudden pang in his voice that he tried really hard not to let show.

Colin felt that pang, too; he didn’t want to have to say goodbye to Mickey.

“I’ll bring Iggy and Mandy by tomorrow to see you, with added security of course. I’ll send some with Ian, too.”

“Sounds good.” Mickey sniffed loudly, hiding any sort of sentimentality as he stood up from the chair, glancing absently at the key fob in Colin’s hand one last time before pointing to it.

“It’s in the abandoned garage still over on fiftieth.”

“I’ll take good care of her.” With that Colin smiled, winking at his brother like an asshole, and Mickey flipped him the bird in return before Colin turned and strolled back out into the fading sun, heading straight towards the meeting that would determine not just his future, but his place in both this city, and this world.

Sirko walked into the office at exactly eight on the dot, with Okulov by his side; neither of them looked overjoyed to be there in the first place, but the disdain on their faces increased tenfold when they saw Colin sitting at Terry’s desk – Iggy standing unwavering by his side – and not their father.

“Colin,” Sirko acknowledged, glancing around the room as if searching for the head of the family, but too fucking bad, Colin thought, he wasn’t going to come.

“Please.” Colin stood out of respect, and motioned to the two chairs on the other side of the desk that faced him. “Sit.”

Okulov glanced warily at Sirko before eyeing their personal security that were still standing by the door, as if maybe this were some sort of setup; but he nodded finally – content with what he saw – and both of them undid their suit buttons at the same time before taking a seat. The Russian leaned back casually in his chair and crossed his long legs, wrapping his tattooed hands around his knee, and something about it irked Colin immensely, as if Okulov refused to show Colin the same level of respect he would be showing Terry. It was just a well-known fact that crossing your legs at someone else’s table was considered rude.

“Where’s your father?” Sirko asked then, reaching absently into his inner pocket and pulling out a single cigar. “I promised I’d bring him this, as a gift – it’s a Gurkha, from His Majesty’s Reserve…” he trailed off, raising an eyebrow at Colin, inquiring.

A box of those cigars cost $15,000, Colin remembered the conversation.

“Terry’s dead,” he answered, leaning back in his own chair as if he were simply talking about the weather, causing his guests to sit forward subconsciously, and as if the realization of how he was sitting in front of the new head of the Milkovich Empire came crashing down onto him like a ton of bricks, Okulov uncrossed his legs, putting both feet on the floor in a sign of respect, and Colin wanted to smile.

“Pardon?” Sirko reached out and laid the cigar gently on the desk, his eyes closing as if he hadn’t quite heard him correctly.

“Terry’s dead,” Colin repeated, sitting forward again as he folded his hands in front of him, eyeing his guests with as much calm and intellect as he had learned over the years, and he wasn’t the smallest bit put out by it – wasn’t the least bit intimidated by the seasoned veterans that sat across from him.

“How?”

“He found my brother Mikhailo holed up with that fuckin’ ginger.” Okulov shifted slightly in his chair at the mention of Ian, almost fidgeting out of annoyance and contempt. “He asked me to come as back up,” Colin continued, “because my brother would never kill me, even if he had the chance – I mean, he already did once, and he couldn’t do it.” Colin let his hand fall onto his bandaged thigh and he eyed it absently, ensuring all of them remembered Mickey’s bullet entering his muscle. “But he would kill Terry in a heartbeat, we knew, so…”

“So where is he?” Okulov spat suddenly, interrupting him as he sat up in hostility, and Colin glared at him – narrowed his eyes the smallest bit and shot daggers into those cold brown irises.

“Watch it, Vasily,” Sirko hissed, and shot him his own look; it was no longer his place to interrupt or question Colin, not anymore; Colin was above him now – Colin was at the tippy-top, just like Sirko.

“Apologies,” the Russian sighed, raising his hands in surrender, and Colin nodded his acceptance of said apology before continuing, feeling his ego grow at the same time Iggy moved slightly closer to him out of instinct, as if knowing the lies were coming, and he wanted to protect him should nobody believe a single one.

“I went with our father, and Mikhailo killed him,” Colin admitted. “It was as simple as that.” He looked away then – tried to act as if he were filled with a never-ending tide of anger and betrayal, and maybe a hint of sadness at their father’s death, even though he felt absolutely none of these things.

“And Mikhailo?”

“Is dead.” Colin reached into his inner pocket, pulling out the small box that had been sitting like a lead weight against his chest. “For your own satisfaction,” he sighed, and pushed the box across the table before reaching back in and pulling out the keyfob to go with it. “In hopes that you’ll accept this as retribution, and a problem solved.”

The men glanced at both small, inconspicuous items laid out before them, and ultimately it was Sirko who reached out first, pinching the small black lid of the box between his fingers before lifting it slightly – just enough so he could eye what was inside – before sliding it towards Okulov; the Russian however hadn’t been blessed with as much tact or grace as his host, and Colin had to keep himself from dramatically rolling his eyes as Okulov grabbed the box, opened it fully, and dumped the fingers out haphazardly into his palm before eyeing them curiously, rolling them around like they were marbles, and he was just a stupidly curious kid.

“Where’s the rest of him?” he asked, his thick accent rolling over his syllables, and fuck, Colin hoped he could pull this off.

“Buried,” he lied. “Terry is downstairs, if you wish to see him.”

“Buried?” Okulov raised an eyebrow, glancing at Sirko as he dropped the fingers back into the box and tossed it onto the desk. “Why bury a traitor?”

Colin assumed the Russian probably cut traitors up – put them through a mulcher or some shit before feeding them to wild Russian dogs; but that had never been the Milkovich way, and luckily that may work in his favour.

“You’ll forgive me gentlemen but, Mikhailo was still my brother, and it was my will to do with him as I pleased.”

“I want to see him,” Okulov hissed, leaning back again in his chair, but despite his rising, errant temper, he didn’t make a move to re-cross his legs..

“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” Iggy said suddenly – right on cue – and Colin turned at once, grasping onto his brother’s arm, pulling him harshly down towards him, and grabbing his face in his massive hand, squeezing it so hard that Colin could feel his brother’s stubble cutting into his skin.

“Don’t you dare fucking speak unless I’ve asked you to,” Colin spat, and felt his breath come back hot in his face as Iggy eyed him, his brows furrowing in embarrassed confusion before he nodded quickly, and Colin let go, leaving large white welts on his pink skin where his fingers had been. “As I was saying,” Colin continued, adjusting his suit in feigned annoyance. “Mikhailo has been buried in an unmarked grave, as fit for a traitor of the Milkovich family, and it’s only out of respect for my father that I kept his own body for you to see; we honour the dead that deserve it, that’s always been our custom, and you know that, Sirko.” Colin glanced at the old man, and felt content when he nodded back in understanding. “To only look upon the faces of the worthy was what my father had always wanted – had always taught us – and trust me gentlemen, that sure as shit wasn’t Mickey, and I refused to spoil my father’s legacy like that.”

It was all the truth – well, except for Mickey being dead, of course; it was Ukrainian custom in this business to dishonor traitors to the name by stripping away their dignity – not even giving a cold corpse the satisfaction of someone else looking upon their face, so as to be forgotten as quickly as possible; everything beyond that had to be taken on word and loyalty, which Terry Milkovich had never once broken in twenty years.

Colin was also grasping onto the fact that Sirko, too, was part Ukrainian, and he had honoured this custom just as faithfully as his father.

“Your father was an honest man,” Sirko put in then, eyeing Colin with only a hint of wariness, and if Terry Milkovich had been nothing else, at least he was that.

“And he taught me to be the same way,” Colin replied, reaching a hand out instinctively in partnership. “I will honour his ties, his legacy, and have done what I can to bring some form of closure to this unfortunate situation.”

Sirko reached out without hesitation and shook Colin’s hand at once, and Colin noted absently that it was surprisingly warm for such a man as he.

“And Curtis?” Okulov questioned, his forehead pulling together in disgust, and Colin felt his spine tighten at the name.

“You think I gave a fuck about him?” Colin almost laughed, a smile pulling up his lips. “He was dead before Mickey hit the floor; but if you need accompaniment while you’re here, please, you can have access to any one of my escorts, no favours, no debts…”

Okulov rubbed absently at his chin, and Colin thought he _almost_ seemed sorry at the loss of the accursed red-head, but it only lasted a second.

“I head back to Moscow in a few weeks,” he pondered, head bobbing from side to side. “Maybe I’ll take my pick tonight, and keep them for the remainder of my stay…”

It wasn’t really a question, and Colin didn’t altogether like being told what was going to happen on his watch, but what choice did he have?

“By all means, Iggy will take you down to whichever room you prefer.”

“Boys,” Okulov admitted simply, smiling up at Iggy as if proud of himself, but maybe also eyeing him in a way that made Colin think that Iggy might very well have been his next intended target if he wasn’t now Colin’s second-in-command. Despite no doubt seeing the same look in the Russian’s eye, Iggy still nodded politely before strolling towards the door, Okulov getting up to follow behind before turning abruptly back at the last minute. “Burn those,” he said, pointing to the fingers on the desk. “In Russia, we burn the traitors alive.”

_Of course you fucking do_.

“On my word,” Colin said, and he meant it; he’d burn them – he’d burn the ever living fuck out of them so there was absolutely nothing at all left of Mickey Milkovich.

As soon as Okulov and Iggy had disappeared from sight, Sirko turned in his chair, motioning for his security to wait in the hallway before raising an inquiring eyebrow at Colin, who understood, and did the same in return, nodding for his own security to follow suit; and as soon as they were alone, Sirko leaned forward, pushing the cigar across the table.

“For you,” he confessed, his English still lilted, even after almost an entire lifetime in the States. “On one condition.”

Colin didn’t give a fuck about cigars really – he had vowed a long time ago to not become his father, but you didn’t say no to your equals in this business, not unless absolutely necessary.

“And what would that be?”

“I trusted your father,” the old man started, leaning back in his seat and crossing his legs – which Colin had no place to question – intertwining his fingers under his weathered chin. “Out of respect and the ties we have, I vow now to trust you as well.” He stopped, glancing absently around the room as if double-checking to make sure they were truly alone before turning a cold yet almost fatherly gaze onto Colin. “Whether this story you’ve woven is true, isn’t my place to question – the business with Curtis is Okulov’s, not mine; but if he ever comes to find out you lied here today, I swear now I won’t be there to help you should there be a fallout.”

Colin swallowed hard at that, but fuck, he respected it – he actually thought he respected the man that sat across from him a Hell of a lot more at the saying of it, even _if_ he was technically questioning his honesty; but this was Chicago – if Okulov ever came knocking in the Milkovich’s own backyard, it would be his own funeral.

“I understand,” Colin said simply, and granted Sirko the courtesy of not lying to his face, but also not divulging the truth.

“Good.” Sirko stood then, redoing the button of his jacket. “Now, take me to see your father.”

The next night, Colin, Iggy, and their sister were all packed tightly into the back seat of a single Range Rover, a separate car with security in front of them, and another one behind as they flew towards South Side. Colin felt more at ease now after the meeting, the hardest part of his week out of the way, but he knew he could never – for the rest of his life – let his guard down, no matter how comfortable he felt; he could no longer afford it.

The news had gone out that morning that Terry Milkovich had died of a heart attack in his sleep, and there would be a public viewing followed by a private funeral in a few days time – closed casket, of course. It was also reported in every paper and news outlet that the eldest son of the Chicago millionaire – Colin Milkovich – would take over the family empire.

_Yea_ , he thought absently, watching the cars they passed in the evening light as a small smile played on the edge of his lips. _Yea, I will_.

Mickey opened the front door, and Mandy was on him before he could even say _hey_.

“I’m so happy you’re okay,” she whispered, her eyes closing as she nuzzled lovingly into his stubbled neck. She had been happier these past two days, Colin noticed – happier because Terry was gone, her brothers weren’t, and things were seemingly moving forward.

“Yea yea, I knew I would be,” Mickey replied, eyeing his brothers, and it was clearly bullshit, but they left it.

“Where’s Ian?” Colin asked, stepping through the door, just as Ian bounded down the stairs, dressed in a nicer pair of jeans and shirt than Colin was used to seeing.

“Hi guys.” Ian actually smiled at them – Iggy included – and wrapped both his freckled arms around Mandy, who seemed genuinely happy to see him – to see that he, too, was okay – and the sight made Colin feel suddenly more protective of the red-head, as if he were inexplicably squeezing his way into their family somehow, and it only made Colin’s brain work overtime as he calculated, planned for, and thought out every possible scenario for every single one of his siblings, including Ian Gallagher.

“There are three security on the sidewalk,” Colin stated to Ian, tilting his head towards the front door. “They’ll go home with you.”

Ian nodded at him before glancing at Mickey, as if searching for his approval – for him to confirm that it would be okay – and Mickey smiled the smallest bit in answering, and Colin watched as Ian’s entire demeanor calmed, like Mickey’s word was all he ever needed.

“I can go now?” he asked Colin, knowing full well who was really in charge, despite his preference for Mickey, and there was a small hint of sadness in his voice at the knowledge that he was about to see his family for the last time in what would probably be a while.

“You can go.”

“You sure you don’t want me to come get you?” Mickey asked, his voice quiet; Colin still wasn’t used to it, not even after all this time – hearing his baby brother lose the sarcasm and that hard-edge, and simply… _care_.

“No.” Ian reached a hand out, setting it on Mickey’s jaw for a second before leaning over to kiss him gently, causing Iggy to sniff loudly – awkwardly – and go into the kitchen, and Mandy followed him as Colin just glanced away. “I’ll be back soon.”

With that Ian turned, crossing the threshold and skipping eagerly down the porch steps, but just as he reached the bottom, Mickey leaned out the open door.

“Hey, fuck heads!” he called, and the security instinctively turned. “Anything happens to him and I swear to fucking God I’ll chop your nuts off and feed them to fucking dogs.”

Colin huffed in amusement at that, walking into the kitchen and grabbing a beer from the fridge; Mandy already had a bottle of wine open at the table, Iggy sitting across from her with a beer, telling her some stupid story about their meeting the night before.

“Here,” Mickey put in then, coming up behind Colin and opening the cupboard above the fridge, reaching up on his tiptoes and pulling down what Colin recognized was an extremely expensive bottle of Scotch. “I was saving this for…” he trailed off, eyeing the front door for a second as if thinking of Ian. “…I dunno, something…but fuck it, let’s drink it.”

A few hours later they were all fairly drunk; even Colin was surprised that he had a buzz going; he always tried to stay focused and ready should something happen, and now more than ever that was probably really important; but fuck it, he thought, he didn’t know when they would all be together like this again, and he was going to enjoy his family as much as he possibly could, because he had vowed to never become like their father.

Classic rock was playing from a Bluetooth speaker in the kitchen, and Colin glanced absently at the floor as he listened to a song he hadn’t heard in ages, surprised to see no blood stains on the hardwood. Everything was loud and warm, and it reminded him of Christmas as a child – of sitting around the table with family, and everything, everywhere, was just…happiness.

“Well what are the fuckin’ chances!?” Iggy exclaimed, and Colin suddenly tuned back into the conversation, a little lost now to where they were, but fuck it, he didn’t altogether care.

“Hey you’re the one that told me to go get him!”

“Can you imagine if Iggy had gone instead!?” Mandy said, swirling the wine around in her tall glass, almost spilling it onto her white cardigan.

“Gone where?” Colin put in, finishing the last sip of whiskey in his glass before nursing the beer he already had open beside him.

“To the Fairy Tale!”

“Ahh.” Colin leaned back in his chair, twirling the bottle cap between his fingers. “Iggy isn’t really Ian’s type so, I guess he’d be pretty heartbroken right now if he had gone…”

“Fuck off,” Iggy spat, and flicked his own bottle cap at Colin’s head. “I ain’t no fag.”

“Watch yourself!” Mickey gave him the finger, but there was a drunken smile on his lips, and Colin took a second to look at him then – look at his sharp nose that was the same as his; his blue eyes that were the same as his; his comical eyebrows that were actually one of a kind as they creased and shot up at the most perfect _and_ inopportune times, and fuck, Colin was going to miss him; more than that, he was going to worry every fucking day, but he had to let him go sometime, he had always known it.

“I’ll never understand what you see in him,” Iggy said then, ducking out of the way as Mickey hurled the salt shaker at him, which Mandy snorted at. “Fuckin’ pale ass motherfucker…”

“But he’s so sweet!” Mandy scoffed, leaning her chin on her hand as she gazed starry-eyed at Mick.

“Also surprisingly resilient,” Colin added, raising his own eyebrows at Iggy, as if trying to convince him to take it easy.

“I think I want to marry him,” Mickey spat suddenly, and although his words came out a little slurred, they all heard him, and they also all shut the fuck up immediately to stare silently in his direction, their mouths falling open the smallest bit.

Colin knew they were all having the same exact thought: that they had always known Mickey could love and love _hard_ , but none of them had ever once considered something as mundane as marriage to be in the cards for him, and Colin also knew that Mickey was just as surprised at those words leaving his lips as the rest of them.

“I’m sorry, what did you just say!?” Iggy spat, falling back in his chair, nearly spilling his beer all over himself. 

Mickey’s face went a hilarious shade of red, from embarrassment as much as the booze.

“Fuck off.”

“You’re drunk,” Colin admitted, pointing a finger in his direction, but knew that wasn’t the reason Mickey had said it.

“ _Fuck ooffff_ ,” Mickey hissed again, and flipped them all the bird, a drunken grin teasing his lips as he chugged the last of his beer. 

“Okay okay,” Mandy said suddenly, turning in her chair so she could face Mickey full on. “But, seriously!? You want to marry him!?” She sounded hopeful almost, and Colin watched her for moment then ,too, and realized all at once that although they had never known their mother, it had never mattered, because they had Mandy – Mandy, who had never once experienced a single day in the life of the Milkovich brothers, but would take a bullet and end a thousand lives for every single one of them a thousand times over..

Mickey chewed on his lip, fingered his eyebrow, thumbed his temple.

“I just…” he started, but stopped; he couldn’t express those feelings, not here, not now.

_Fucking Milkoviches_ …

“You have my blessing,” Colin said suddenly, and it must be an overriding theme tonight he thought, because he didn’t altogether know where the words came from either; and although Mickey would never need Colin’s blessing to do anything, he knew it would mean something to him – that it would probably mean a lot; besides, he could do worse than Ian Gallagher – a lot worse.

“What?” Mickey looked at him then, his face going blank and soft, his mouth dropping open the smallest bit in what looked like disbelief, and if Colin had known it would mean something, he didn’t realize just how much.

“Marry him.” Colin shrugged nonchalantly and sipped his beer, and he meant it.

“Oh my fucking God, does that mean you’re going to propose!?” Mandy _did_ spill her wine then as she bounced gleefully up and down in her seat, a tiny, high-pitched squeal escaping out into the room.

“Fuck no,” Mickey spat, but he looked like he was lying. “It’s only been a couple months and that’s fucked up…?” He said this last part almost as if it were a question, as if he were seeking some sort of contradiction from those he trusted most – or maybe validation – which Colin was more than happy to give.

“Mick, the shit you two have been through is enough for…”

“He’ll say yes!” Mandy interrupted suddenly, and Colin shot her an annoyed look, but was still somehow filled with happiness at the sight of her excitement; it had been too long since they had been together like this, and Colin was glad that Terry was gone, because one day soon, when Mickey and Ian came back, they could do it more often.

“No he fuckin’ won’t.” Mickey sounded positive of this.

“Oh yes he will!” Mandy stood up then, setting her glass on the tabletop with a _clink_ as fragile as she was before heading suddenly up the stairs, and they all watched her go, waiting impatiently for a moment before she reappeared, coming back down the stairs and around the corner, something black in her hand.

She set whatever it was on the table in front of Mickey, and Colin could see after a second – his eyes squinting through a slight haze – that it was a sweater.

Mickey eyed it curiously – they all did – before looking back to Mandy, as if she were nuts.

“Oh for fuck sakes,” she spat, and sat down in her chair. “It’s your sweater, Mick!”

“And?” Mickey looked thoroughly unimpressed.

“It’s _your_ sweater, that Ian has had inside of one of his boxes for weeks now…”

“Did you go through his shit!?” Mickey interrupted, and Colin snorted at the bickering.

“No, he said I could borrow a book so I went into his boxes to look for one, and this was at the bottom.”

“So he kept my sweater, big deal. I have one of his, too...”

“Okay dumbass,” Mandy said, voice mockingly stupid, tilting her head back and forth in annoyed acceptance. “Unfold it.”

“Huh?”

“Unfold the shirt!” she said to him, pointing at it as if there were gold hidden inside it, and fuck, Colin didn’t think that would surprise him – he didn’t think anything about Ian Gallagher could surprise him anymore.

Mickey raised an eyebrow at her, glanced around awkwardly at his brothers, but didn’t ask anything more before he finally reached out, and gently unfolded the fabric.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Firstly, I am going to get back into answering all of your comments!  
> -Random side-note that I sometimes make spelling/grammatical errors that I don't notice at first, even though I do TWO edit read-throughs! But I always come back and read through it one more time on AO3, and I always end up catching a few that I end up fixing, so I apologize if I ever miss anything - I WILL catch it eventually!  
> -Also Colin's anthem for this chapter is Hate Me Now by Nas. I was listening to it on repeat! It is a 90's hip-hop/rap anthem so, it has swearing and stuff in case you wanted to listen to it haha but it has Colin's swagger down.  
> -Next chapter will be up soon! I already have it started!


	14. Third-Base

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Secrets, family, discoveries, happiness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my new favourite chapter, hands down! It is filled with a lot of warmth, a lot of family, and a lot of secret discoveries.  
> Please remember that this story is rated 18+  
> You're welcome.  
> Also, as you may have noticed, I have upped the chapter count to 17.  
> As always, please feel free to follow me on Twitter @WhatsaMattavich for updates, excerpts, random one-shot stories and Gallavich things! I also now have an Instagram account with the same handle to post my FanArt!

Ian strolled slowly up the seven wooden steps of his home on South Wallace, glancing up at the weathered blue façade and sending up a silent thanks to every fading brick, beam, and nail – as if it hadn’t just been those walls they had held up and together for all those years, but him, too.

_No, not just me_ , he thought absently. _All of us_.

The door opened suddenly then without warning – before he even had the chance to knock or stroll right in – and Lip was there, like he had been waiting by that front window ever since Ian had disappeared in a cloud of smoke only two days before, with nothing left behind but small puddles of blood on the floor and some crooked cushions.

Ian could imagine exactly what his brother was feeling, and it wasn’t altogether good, considering Ian had only sent him one single text before climbing into the shower with Mickey that very night, informing him that he was okay, and that was it – no other explanations or excuses.

Lip looked livid as he stared back at Ian in silence; his wide, blue eyes boring into him from the threshold, and Ian felt suddenly like a child again there on those front steps, waiting for a punishment he knew was probably imminent.

Ian had wanted to come over at once, of course – had wanted to call, or text at least; but he still hadn’t quite grasped the reality of what had come to pass, and he still wasn’t sure how he was going to find the words to admit not only what he had done, but what Mickey’s family had done _because_ of him, what was still about to happen, and happen a lot sooner than he had promised.

“I swear to God, Ian,” Lip sighed finally, eyeing him as if he weren’t quite sure whether to be pissed or relieved at his sudden appearance, but clearly made up his mind rather quickly as he strode directly out onto the porch then and pulled Ian down into him, wrapping his arms so tightly around his shoulders that Ian closed his eyes out of instinct, letting the comfort and love of his brother enshroud him as it had done since the day he was born.

“I’m sorry,” Ian whispered, pressing his lips to Lip’s shoulder briefly, tightly, before letting go, and he didn’t think Lip would ever grasp just _how_ sorry he was.

“You okay?” Lip held him out at arm’s length, glancing over him from head to toe, his gaze finally settling on the darkening bruise at Ian’s jaw where Terry’s fist had hit it – shifted it – and his brows furrowed in anger as he reached a hand out, turning Ian’s face a little to get a better look in better light.

“I’m fine, Lip,” Ian admitted, but Lip’s face only tightened further as he also noticed the throbbing welt at the base of Ian’s hairline where he’d been pistol-whipped while he sat on the green couch inside – gazing absently up at their family photos – and the anger in Lip’s voice was evident.

“What the fuck is that from!?”

“I’m fine, Lip! Really.” It was the truth, for the most part; physically, he _was_ fine – just a little sore, maybe; it was everything else that was truly paining him now, his skies darkening at the thought of having to leave this all behind – of having to leave _them_ all behind.

“Who the fuck are they?” Lip spat then, his arms falling away from Ian’s tall frame as he tilted his head towards the three security guards standing down on the sidewalk by the front gate, and a huff of air escaped Ian’s nose in amusement.

“Safety measures,” he replied. “Just in case.”

“Just in case?” Lip eyed him again, rubbing absently at his own jaw. “Is it still not over?”

_Over_. Ian tossed that word around in his brain for a second; would anything ever truly be _over_ anymore? Or was he destined to always be looking over his shoulder, something always coming up as soon as another thing finally ended.

“For the most part, it’s over.” Ian felt a breath hitch in his throat as he glanced down at his personal security, one of them breaking off from the group and heading around to the back of the house.

“Tell me,” Lip said, crossing his arms over his chest, and Ian appreciated the calmness in his voice.

“Is everyone here?” Ian asked, suddenly hearing Franny’s laugh come abruptly from somewhere beyond the open door.

“Carl’s at work.” Lip turned back towards the sound of their niece. “But yea, everyone else is here.”

“Call Carl.” Ian reached a hand out, squeezing Lip’s shoulder as he pushed past him in the evening light and sauntered into the familiar living room, setting his backpack down on the chair before eyeing the freshly cleaned floor and semi-straight cushions. “Call Kev and V, too. I need them here.”

Lip stared at him curiously – warily; his face contorting with worry as he heard those words escape Ian’s lips.

“Okay…? Should I get Tami, too, or…”

“No,” Ian cut him off, and the word came out harsher than he had meant it to, but he really couldn’t have her here for this; not that he didn’t trust her, but she wasn’t… _family_.

“I’ll get her to take the kids out or something…”

Debbie came suddenly down the stairs then, work boots clunking hard against the wood before she stopped dead in her tracks on the landing, eyes widening as she saw Ian standing ominously in their living room – a little worse for wear, but alive.

“Ian!?” she breathed, his name only a surprised whisper, and she practically cleared the bottom steps in a single go as she jumped down into his arms. “Holy fuck!” she cried, her voice catching in her throat. “You bastard!”

Ian couldn’t be sure, but he thought maybe she was crying as he held her, her body shaking the smallest bit as he lifted her a foot or so off the floor – like he used to do when they were younger and he’d smile down into her round, freckled face that had been so much like his own.

“I’m sorry, Debs,” he sighed, knowing it wasn’t the last apology he was going to have to give tonight, but he smiled despite it as Debbie let go of him at his words, cranked her arm back, and slapped him hard on the shoulder as her lip quivered; but in spite of that angry little outburst, she wrapped her arms back around him once more, and squeezed.

“Yea you fucking should be.”

They all sat around the table, the sky outside the windows bruising to the purplish black of twilight. Tami had – reluctantly – taken Franny and Freddie down the street to Kev and V’s place, where she was also currently watching Amy and Gemma; but she wasn’t alone – Ian had sent Liam with her as well, because he didn’t want him to be privy to this conversation, either, and figured Lip would tell him later anyways, in his own words that were always so much more reassuring than his own.

“Hey baby,” V whispered lovingly, reaching a hand out and patting it over his thigh as he stared down at the tabletop, all of them eyeing him curiously, waiting. “You okay?”

A hiss of air escaped Ian’s nose in amusement at that, because he didn’t have an honest answer – he was, and he wasn’t; he was both all at once and together.

Ian knew he had to tell them the truth about everything, of course – about Terry, about Colin; about the men he had killed, and the complete lack of remorse he felt at the action, which was still the one thing that was eating him alive more than anything else.

It was for this exact reason – his complete lack of feeling about any of it – that he hadn’t touched Mickey since they had fucked in the shower that Saturday night. At the time and in the moment, he was just so fucking thankful to even be alive that nothing else seemed to matter – no other thought had entered his brain besides being with Mickey in his favourite way – not just because they could, but because there was now nobody in the fucking world that could stop them. After though, when they had lain in bed together – Mickey falling asleep immediately in his arms – Ian had stared up at the ceiling in silence, his mind racing and tumbling over the hard truth that he had taken two lives, and had felt absolutely nothing – that he had almost _died_ and felt absolutely nothing – and he was fucking terrified; he was terrified because he knew that when he didn’t _feel_ anything, it meant that the darkness was coming – the depression – and he worried that it was on his doorstep now, knocking.

Mickey knew none of this of course, though Ian was sure he was at least aware that _something_ was up, from nothing more than Ian’s complete lack of contact besides a simple touch here and there – his face on his shoulder when Colin had come. Ian wanted to have him – to touch him – more than anything – in all the ways he knew best and that he loved; but first, he needed to see the people that knew him best – needed his family to really _see_ him, so they could confirm whether or not he _was_ different – whether or not he was changing in that familiar yet horrible way – or, if he was simply being as rational and level-headed as any of them would be; because Ian didn’t know either way, and he didn’t think that Mickey deserved to have to see it – to deal with it – if he _was_ back in that dark place once more.

Ian didn’t want Mickey to have to deal with anything, really.

Ian thought Mickey had dealt with enough because of him.

“Terry Milkovich didn’t die of a heart attack,” Ian admitted finally, figuring he’d start with the simplest truth first, and he raised his eyes warily to glance around at the faces of his siblings.

“Yea no shit,” Carl huffed from the far end of the table, causing Ian to grin a little for the first time all night.

“Colin, Mickey’s oldest brother, he umm…” Ian trailed off, rubbing absently at the end of his nose, twirling the cap from his beer bottle between his fingers. “He killed him to save my life.”

Everyone was quiet for a second, nothing but the far-off sound of yelling breaking into their little world as each one of them swallowed the weight of Ian’s words – glanced back and forth between each other – and nodded to nobody in particular, letting Ian’s reality sink into their souls.

“And?” Lip put in suddenly, breaking the tension as he raised an errant eyebrow.

“And what?”

“And what else?” Lip leaned closer towards him quietly in the dim light from the kitchen, causing Ian to close his eyes, rub a hand over his face; Lip would always know when there was more – when there was something more _wrong_.

Ian took a deep breath.

“I killed two people.” The words came out louder than he thought they would, and they hung there in the silence like clouds in a late summer sky, drifting slowly into the ears of every person there. When nobody said anything, Ian added, “And I don’t feel a fuckin’ thing about it,” and he was sure they could hear the pure, unadulterated worry in the way he said it – was sure they knew at once what he actually meant and what he was really looking for: validation that he was still okay; that he was still up in the light, where they were.

It was quiet for a few moments more, before suddenly there was another grip on his thigh; but it wasn’t V’s this time – it was Lip’s.

“Ian,” he whispered, a smile pulling of the corner of his mouth. “My brother.” Lip removed his hand then and wrapped it tightly around the back of Ian’s neck, jerking his head closer to his own so that he was right in his face, making completely sure that Ian was holding still – was looking right into his eyes – so he would know he was serious as he said, “You did what you had to do, and we all know it…”

“And there’s nothing wrong with you,” Debbie finished, as if they were all on the same wavelength – which fuck, maybe they were – and it was so simple and honest an admission that Ian felt his eyes close against his will at once, because hearing those words from Lip, from Debbie – from his _family_ – made that heavy weight lift out from somewhere within his chest, and it floated away once and for all, allowing him to once again open his eyes to the light.

Mickey had told him that night in the car on their way back from the warehouse that Ian felt everything – that Ian _always_ felt everything, but that sometimes, it was just different ways; and Ian thought absently then that maybe Mickey knew him, too – knew him just as well as anyone sitting at that table – because he’d been right.

“I thought I was going back,” Ian confessed, and felt the tears burning behind his eyes that he managed to hold back, and he was glad Mickey wasn’t there to hear about the anxieties he had hidden from him.“Back into that fucking darkness...”

“You’re alright, Ian,” Lip cut in, rubbing a thumb absently along the back of Ian’s neck that he still held firm. “You’re right here.”

Ian let his head fall forward then – let his forehead rest against Lip’s in a move he thought was maybe too intimate for two brothers from South Side; but it was born from nothing more than affection and gratitude, and he did laugh then – genuinely – feeling the mere presence of the ones he loved most wrap around him like a warm blanket in the dead of winter as he mentally prepared himself for what was coming next.

“But I won’t be here for much longer,” he admitted, feeling that lump in his throat return. “Mickey and I will be gone in a day or two.”

Lip let go then – pulled himself away at those words – sitting back hard in his chair; because although they had known it was coming, Ian also knew that there was a part of them that thought maybe it never would; but here they were, on the precipice of goodbyes.

Ian glanced around – watched as Debbie turned her eyes away, picking absently at the tabletop; Carl folded his arms over is chest and eyed his shoes; Kev and V just glanced at each other, like the worried parents they were.

“Do you know for how long?” V asked, toying with the hoop in her ear, and fuck, Ian loved her – he loved all of them.

“Few months at least but no, not exactly.”

“Then there’s only one thing to do,” Kev put in then, finally breaking his silence as he sat up and picked the case of beer he had brought up from off the floor beside him. “We fuckin’ party.”

~

Despite the semi-intoxicated state he was in and the pain that radiated continuously from the massive gash on his forehead where his father had pistol-whipped him, Mickey was still only worrying about Ian – so close to him yet so far away, in more ways than one. Ian had been distant these past two days – he had barely touched him, and besides holding him tightly at night – as if he were a buoy in an empty sea – he hadn’t wanted anything more from him, which wasn’t like him – wasn’t like _either_ of them – in the least; they wanted everything from each other – more than that, they _needed_ everything from each other – always.

Mickey worried that it was because everything that had happened – everything that _was_ happening – had become too much for him; and maybe, just maybe, he was having second thoughts about leaving – about being with Mickey in the first place – which is why Mickey resented himself for even bringing up the fact that he had been considering marrying Ian; and was why he hesitated for a moment before finally reaching out and lifting back the top fold of the sweater that Mandy had placed before him and laying it gently against the tabletop, as if it were made of glass.

At first it just looked like a small collection of random things – nothing besides the entirety of the tiny pile really grabbing Mickey’s attention; that was until he actually _looked_ – eyeing each of the _things_ individually – and the drunkenness within him ebbed away suddenly like the receding tides, as if it had never really been there in the first place.

Mickey reached out and picked up the bracelet he had gotten Ian for his birthday, which he had in all honesty nearly forgotten about; the last time he’d seen it on Ian’s wrist was the night he had reached out to him in heartbreak against his apartment door, and had tried – and failed – to stop him from leaving. Mickey almost wondered why he’d taken it off, until he remembered that it was the very next day that Ian had gone back to Sirko; of _course_ he would take it off, because Ian wouldn’t risk displaying his love so carelessly like that; and maybe even more than that, Mickey thought, Ian wouldn’t risk anyone finding out who he was.

Mickey flipped the small silver clasp over and looked at the initials inscribed on the back. _SW_. South Wallace.

“I remember when we went and bought him that,” Mandy said then, gently touching her finger to the bracelet before reaching out and picking up a small black card from the tiny pile and handing it to him. “And obviously this, you know.”

Mickey glanced down at it; it was a business card for the Lakehouse, where he had taken Ian on their first – and really only – date. Mickey wondered absently when the Hell he had managed to take that, just as something unknown clawed its way up his throat – angry and desperate to break free – but Mickey was fucking choking on it, refusing to let it burst out in front of _everyone_.

“What’s that?” Iggy asked abruptly, leaning forward in his seat and picking a shiny white chunk of _something_ up from off the fabric, twirling it carefully around in his fingers, and Mickey felt his brows furrow in confusion as he looked at it.

“I have no fucking clue…”

“It’s from a coffee mug,” Colin answered suddenly, a small, knowing smile pulling up one corner of his mouth as he rubbed at the side of his head. “I saw him pick it up from off the floor before I drove him home that night, I just didn’t know why…”

_That night_.

Mickey remembered that night once more – the way he had thrown that fucking mug so hard against the wall, knowing he was going to have to leave Ian alone with nothing, and it had nearly fucking killed him.

“But this,” Mandy said suddenly, pulling out what looked like a small, folded piece of paper with a wrinkly old receipt stapled to the top and holding it up between them. “This is mostly what I wanted to show you.”

Mickey eyed her, raising an errant eyebrow, but took the paper from her anyways, squinting a little as he looked down at it before unfolding it gently. It was a copy of a signed consent form, and Mickey recognized the name of the tattoo shop around the corner from his apartment that he and Ian had gone to completely fucking inebriated on the night of his birthday; he eyed the receipt, absently wondering why the _fuck_ he had agreed to pay $150 for those two tiny letters.

“Yea, my tattoo, so what?” Mickey sighed, smiling a little before shoving it back at her. “Are we all gunna have a laugh about it again or…?” he trailed off, slightly annoyed; he wasn’t surprised Ian had kept it, considering the other random shit he seemed to have stored away like some ginger Magpie.

“Jesus you’re thick.” Mandy pushed the paper back towards him. “Fuckin’ _look_. Look at the artist’s notes at the bottom.”

Mickey rolled his eyes, bringing the paper back towards his face and reading over the messy scribbled notes in the “tattoo description” box.

“Initials,” he read out loud, his words forced and deliberate so Mandy would get off his back. “Two sets, approx. one inch height, I.G. and M.M…” Mickey stopped, felt his brows furrow as he read that last part, and then read it again. “Nah,” he put in after a second, shaking his head absently. “I only got Ian’s initials. I only got the one. Why the fuck would I get my own initials inked into me?”

“ _You_ only got the one, Mick.” Mandy smiled then, that dreamy look returning to her eyes. “So who got the other?”

~

Ian was sitting on the couch, slightly buzzed; he had drank an entire beer, slowly, but the timing never mattered, it would always give him a little kick no matter what, and he was feeling slightly better because of it, silently wishing that Mickey was there as he watched Lip try his best to explain to Kev how regular exercise had been shown to reduce inflammatory markers like _c-reactive protein_ and _internleukin-6_ – whatever the fuck those were – as he sat on the coffee table, sipping absently at a Coke, and Kev looked absolutely fucking lost, which made Ian smile.

Tami had returned with Liam, and she now sat huddled beside Ian on the couch, low in conversation with Debbie and V at the other end as their girls slept upstairs, shoved head-to-toe in Liam’s bed, and Freddie dozed dead-to-the-world in his crib in Fiona’s old room.

_Fiona_. Fuck, he wished she was there.

“Where’s Anne?” Ian asked then, trying to think of other things as he turned his head to glance at Carl, who sat beside him in a chair he had dragged in from the kitchen, beer bottle twirling absently in his hands; Ian couldn’t altogether be sure, but it seemed to him like Carl – immovable, stubborn Carl – was taking Ian’s leaving the hardest; he had barely spoken a word since Ian had announced his imminent departure at the table, and Ian had the sudden, random thought that maybe Carl had always been the small, silent guardian of this family, watching over all of them in his own, inexplicable ways from the sidelines, and Ian also thought that he would have made an amazing fucking Milkovich.

“Still working,” he replied, taking one final sip before setting the now-empty bottle on the table behind Lip.

“She’s too good for you,” Liam declared, his head tilting upwards from where he sat on the floor against Ian’s legs. “I don’t understand it.”

“Neither do I,” Ian snorted, flinching away from Carl’s punch that hit him hard on the shoulder.

“Whatever man, I’m a fuckin’ Cassanova.”

“That’s a big word, Carl,” Lip hissed, catching their conversation and turning his head towards them. “Good for you!”

“Oh shut up.” Carl gave them all the finger, and they laughed there in the warmth, music pounding out around them from that old familiar boombox, and Ian suddenly didn’t want to be anywhere but exactly where he was – at least for the moment – and he embraced the feeling, letting it course through him like wildfire; because he knew eventually there would be a turn in conversation – an errant lyric or a random spoken word that would drop in out of the blue – and everything within him – his longings, his wants, his needs, his thoughts – would return to Mickey, and it would take everything within him not to stroll out of that house before it was time, and head home.

“Oh you abso-fucking-lutely did not!” Ian spat, falling back onto the floor, a fit of laughter escaping him that was so hysterical that he actually had to roll around – hands on his stomach – to hold himself together.

“I fuckin’ swear!” Lip huffed, shifting himself closer to the coffee table as they all sat on the floor around it. “I shit myself at recess!”

V snorted, a high-pitched sound escaping her lips, and Ian wiped a tear from his eye.

“How old were you!?” Debbie asked, her face gone so red from amusement that she looked like a freckly tomato, and Tami groaned, shooting daggers at their brother from the corner of her eyes.

“I swear to God Lip,” she said. “If you were any older than twelve, Freddie and I will leave you…”

“Fuck no!” Lip popped a cigarette between his lips, a smile on his face that extended from ear to ear. “I was like, eight.”

“I shit myself a few years ago,” Kev admitted then, saying it so nonchalantly with a shrug that everyone fucking lost it again, and Ian just stayed on the floor, staring up at the ceiling as the sounds of true happiness filled him.

“I have never shit myself,” he admitted after a moment, sitting back up to the table and crossing his legs under him. “That’s embarrassing.”

“Hey, you’re the one that asked!” Lip lit his smoke, and without even thinking about it he handed it across the table to Ian – as if it were second nature – and Ian took it, too, without thinking.

“Well sometimes truth is more exciting than dare, apparently…”

“Speaking of dare,” Debbie put in, leaning back so she could glance up the stairs. “Carl!” she yelled. “We’re waiting!”

“I fucking hate you guys,” Carl sighed then, appearing suddenly at the top of the landing before descending slowly, and Ian watched his shoes, his legs, until all of him came abruptly into view, and Ian put both hands over his mouth to keep from fucking bursting.

Carl was in one of Debbie’s black dresses, his longer hair pulled back into a tiny ponytail, and the silence only lasted a second before none of them could stand it anymore, and they were in fucking stitches.

Ian was positive his face was going to hurt tomorrow – and not from the bruises.

“Little too Femme for me but I wouldn’t say no…” he stated between cackles, causing Carl to reach down, take off one of his shoes, and whip it at Ian’s head before turning to storm his way back up the stairs.

“Wait wait wait!” Lip spat, cigarette nearly falling out of his mouth as he grabbed for his phone, ashes falling down onto his shirt. “Let me take a picture!”

“Fuck you!”

Ian grabbed the glass of water he had been nursing for a while and took a massive swig; he fucking needed it – he didn’t think he’d stopped laughing or talking once, and he was trying with everything he had to focus on the now – on this exact second – and not the time he knew was coming.

Despite the water, Ian was also sweating – the heat in that tiny living room at once suffocating from nothing more than just their movement and their presence – so he rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, and it didn’t escape his notice the way everyone’s eyes glanced down at his wrists as they saw the bruises that were almost black around them, the same shape as the grimy grip of a couple of grunts.

“Guys!” Ian exclaimed, letting his smile only widen – nearly split his face in two. “I’m fine!”

And it was true – it was truer than anything else Ian Gallagher had ever admitted beyond his love for Mickey Milkovich; he _was_ fine – in fact, he was more than that – he always would be more than _fine_ when he was surrounded by his family.

“Oh shit!” Lip huffed suddenly, kissing Tami quickly on the cheek out of nothing more than sweetness before he pushed himself up from the floor. “I forgot I had something for you!”

Lip stepped carefully over V and jogged up the stairs, disappearing for only a few seconds before reappearing, striding his way over to Ian, and dropping something down onto the table in front of him before nestling back into his cushion on the floor.

Ian glanced down, and even though the back was facing up, Ian knew that it was a photograph from nothing more than the 4x6 size, and the fact that written there in Fiona’s writing was: _Ian, Age 5_. Ian flipped it over, and huffed in amusement as he looked down at himself, a wide, toothless grin staring back at him from under his Little League cap as he held a baseball bat at the ready, and his entire face was basically just one, massive freckle.

“Found that while going through some boxes for the new place,” Lip put in then, and Ian felt a little sadder at the sight of it, if only because of all the things that had happened between then and now – good and bad – and all the things he had once dreamed of becoming.

“Yea well, thanks for reminding me,” Ian spat sarcastically, tossing it back onto the tabletop.

“Jesus you’re thick.” Lip reached out and pushed the picture back towards him. “Look at it.”

Ian raised an eyebrow at him, but took it back, glancing down at his uniform, the dirt on his knees, the small group of his friends in the background.

“Yea, I was an ugly fuckin’ kid, so what?”

“Oh Jesus fuck…” Lip leaned forward, jutting a finger out and pointing to the small crowd of his teammates. “There.”

Ian eyed the boy Lip was pointing to, his dirty little face turned towards Ian as if watching him, and for a second Ian was completely lost, until the shape of that nose – the shade of that hair and those eyes – filled him with a sudden longing, and he wanted at once to be home – to be home with _him_.

“Mickey,” Ian whispered, and put his thumb out, gently caressing that tiny, round face, and the sadness he had felt left him instantly at the realization that all the things that had happened between then and now – good _and_ bad – had lead him here; that all the things he had dreamed of becoming were once again possible, because he had Mickey.

He had had Mickey from the beginning.

His stomach was in knots, twisting harshly within him as nausea worked its way slowly up his throat, but Ian hitched his backpack up onto his shoulder anyways, eyeing absently the faded blue Cubs cap that hung on one of the hooks behind the door as he prepared to leave, and he grabbed it suddenly – a tiny idea forming somewhere inside his mind – and shoved it haphazardly into his backpack as tears began to fill the corners of his eyes, and he finally turned around to face his family, every single one of them standing there in the living room looking back at him with feigned, tight-lipped smiles.

“Well,” he sniffed, and fuck, he wasn’t going to make it.

“Shut up,” Debbie said suddenly, and came forward, wrapping her arms once more around his shoulders – holding on for longer than any regular sister ever would – and she didn’t just smell like home, Ian thought – she felt like it, too. “Just be safe, okay?”

“I will.” Ian looked down at her then – pushed the hair away from her face – and she was beautiful. “Tell Franny I love her again, when she wakes up.”

Debbie huffed in amusement at that, but nodded absently, sniffing loudly in the silence as she wiped an errant tear from off her cheek before turning and strolling abruptly back to the kitchen without anything more, and it was enough.

“And keep in touch, Ian,” V cut in, her voice going into that soft maternal octave that only she could ever reach, causing Ian to make a mental note to call or text as often as he could, because he could never let her down. “You fuckin’ hear me!?”

“I hear you.”

“Good.” She hugged him then, too, before Kev stepped forward silently and joined her, both of them squeezing him so hard that he was at once enfolded in a familiar feeling of warmth and safety – the same feeling they’d been enfolding him in since the day they had moved in down the street.

They let go of him without another word, just two reassuring smiles pulling up the corners of their mouths before V grabbed their coats, Kev grabbed their sleeping girls up from off the couch, and they headed out into the night.

Carl wouldn’t quite look at him – he was still eyeing the floor, his shoes – but he came up anyways, his gaze meeting Ian’s for only a second before he hugged him tightly, briefly, patted his back once, and let go.

“Fuck shit up man,” he huffed, and turned, half-jogging up the stairs and disappearing from sight, and Ian felt the first tear escape, rolling its way solemnly down his cheek.

“What a wuss,” Liam spat, causing Ian to actually laugh as he wiped that tear away before he reached out and grabbed that small, brilliant head and pulled it into him, Liam’s face smooshing up against his shirt.

“Be good, yea?”

“Will do.”

“And whatever you do,” Ian whispered, leaning down and patting his palm firmly against Liam’s cheek. “Don’t fucking listen to Frank.”

Liam just snorted – like that wasn’t ever something he would ever consider doing in the first place and Ian was an idiot for even having to say it – and Ian thought absently that Liam would be alright, no matter what. They’d done good with him.

“Come on kid,” Tami sighed, grabbing Liam by the arms and steering him up the stairs, glancing back over her shoulder towards Ian one last time, giving him a soft, knowing smile which he returned, and then it was just him, and Lip.

_What exactly am I supposed to say?_ he thought; words would never do his big brother justice.

For the first time all night, Ian felt his lip quiver – felt that burning heat rise threateningly into his eyes as he stared back at his best friend, who had kept him whole and together for so long, just as much as this godforsaken house had – probably even more so.

Ian thought once more about the photo tucked inside his backpack – thought again of all the years that had passed between then and now, and how not a single one of them would have meant a fucking thing if it weren’t for Lip; and even though he had Mickey now, and knew that Mickey would willingly take most of the burdens that came from being Ian’s big brother away from Lip should he wish him to, Ian also knew that Lip would never fucking let him – because his job as his brother would never be done, and it was also a job he would never let slip through his fingers.

“Hey umm…” Ian started, before Lip reached out without warning, wrapping his arms so hard around Ian once more that the breath was nearly knocked from his lungs, and he did cry then, his hand cupping the back of his brother’s head as if that could keep their hearts from aching. “Thanks for being my brother.”

Lip let a long, slow, trembling breath escape his nose.

“I never had a choice,” he whispered, and those words nearly tore Ian’s heart in two as he let go of him, Lip’s own eyes welling there in the dim light of the front entrance, and that was all they would ever need to say.

“I love you guys.”

“We know.”

Lip smiled – as genuinely as he could – and Ian eyed him for just a single second more – everything that ever was and would be passing between them – before he finally turned and headed out the door, tears breaking free from their cage and flowing freely down his cheeks as he strode purposefully down the steps without ever looking back.

He didn’t need to look back, he knew; he only had to look forward.

~

Mickey didn’t know how long he stared at the paper in his hands, his mouth going a little dry as it hung open the tiniest bit, images of Ian’s naked body racing gracefully through his mind.

“No,” he spat after a second, tossing the paper up onto the unfolded sweater laid out before him. “There’s no way, I would have seen it.”

“Probably not with the way you guys do it…” Iggy teased, causing Colin to snort from the other end of the table.

“Iggy!” Mandy scoffed, slapping him hard on the arm, but it was obvious she was also holding back a laugh, so Mickey flipped them all the bird, shoving it towards each one of them individually for good measure.

“But seriously, you’ve never seen it?” Colin stood up, walking back towards the fridge to fetch another beer.

“No.” That was the truth; besides the two Ian already had, Mickey had never once laid eyes on another tattoo on that body he was sure he knew by heart, so there was no fucking way Ian had gotten those initials inked onto him. “Maybe he backed out last minute…”

“Were you that drunk that you don’t remember?”

Mickey barely remembered getting his _own_ tattoo.

“I was fucked, man. We both were.”

Mickey looked back down at the random array of things, and he felt his heart flutter inside his chest at the sight of it all – at the sight of _them_ , laid so simply and inconspicuously out for the world to see – because although he knew Ian cared – had _always_ cared – he’d never realized just how much, and maybe that was something he always should have known.

“So,” Mandy sighed hopefully, raising a curious eyebrow as she picked up her glass and took a deep sip of her wine. “Are you gunna ask him to marry you!?”

Mickey scratched at is temple, not really wanting to admit what he was about to because of how soft it would make him seem, but what difference did it honestly make now?

“I umm…I sort of already did…once…” he confessed, finally, remembering the way the words had sleepily left his mouth all those nights before, and how Ian had never once in the time since acknowledged them – had never spoken a single word about it – which Mickey had always assumed was just his way of saying _no_ , and his heart still ached a little because of it.

As if on cue – as if the universe really wanted to fuck with him tonight – the door opened, and Mickey’s heart hammered in his chest as Ian came strolling in; Mickey had only a second to register the tears that were clearly in his eyes before Ian glanced in their direction, his orange brows lifting to the fucking ceiling as he took in the sight of every single Milkovich sibling sitting around that godforsaken table, picking through his private things as they all stared back at him with looks that were completely and utterly shameless.

“Mick,” Ian said, voice reserved, eyeing him briefly before he gazed down over the things on the table in front of him, and Mickey sat forward at once, returning the wrinkled receipt to its rightful place before refolding the shirt and pushing it across the table towards him.

“We were just umm…”

“It’s my fault,” Mandy admitted, and her face went an unbelievable shade of red as she patted absently at her hair. “Mickey was just asking…”

“About whether or not he should marry you,” Iggy finished, and Mickey could have emptied a clip into his fat fucking face.

Mandy and Colin both shot him looks that were equally as furious, but Mickey simply looked up at Ian at his brother’s words, as Ian looked back down at him, his face going soft in the shadows of the entrance.

“You what?”

“Fuck,” Mickey hissed, a feeling like nervousness entering into his chest at once as he stood, reached over to grab his sweater full of _things,_ and strode directly around the table, grabbing the sleeve of Ian’s shirt. “Come here.”

Mickey dragged him silently up the stairs, and he felt the resistance in Ian’s body as they reached their bedroom, Mickey pushing him inside before closing the door and flipping on the light; he looked up into his eyes then, and saw that they were red around the edges – that there _had_ been tears there – and despite the shyness and embarrassment that was boiling within him at Iggy’s big fucking mouth, Mickey reached up anyways, and thumbed the single trail that glistened in the lamplight.

The other shit could wait.

“Are you okay?” he asked, but knew that he wasn’t – how could he be, after leaving the family he loved more than anything.

“I am now,” Ian whispered, and the way he said it – the way his eyes bore into Mickey’s – made the heat within his chest rise up, up into his face, and sink down, down into everything else; the intensity of that look made Mickey think suddenly that maybe the idea of marriage wasn’t actually all that repulsive to Ian Gallagher after all, even though he had technically ignored his first “proposal” entirely; and it also made Mickey think that whatever had been bothering Ian for the past few days had seemingly disappeared entirely, because he was absolutely positive that Ian wanted all of him right then and there, full dining table be damned.

Mickey took a step back then to keep a level head, his mouth going dry once more as he handed his own sweater back to Ian, rubbing absently at the back of his neck as he eyed the floor in what he knew was a bit of humiliation.

“Sorry, we just umm…”

“I like remembering things,” Ian admitted – not for the first time – and he shrugged, setting the sweater down on their dresser. “Sometimes pictures just don’t do things justice so, I try to take…to keep…something more, I guess, and…” he trailed off then, closing the gap between them and laying a cold hand on Mickey’s jaw. “And I wanted more of you…of _us_ , I guess…”

He wanted more of them, Mickey thought, and fuck, maybe that meant a future set in stone – where they were together for as long as they could be, in all ways.

Fuck, maybe asking Ian Gallagher to marry him now wasn’t that crazy an idea…

“Well, speaking of having _more_ of each other,” Mickey said then, trying to lighten the mood – to work up the courage. “At least one of us went through with getting the tattoos; guess we know which of us is the real tough guy, Gallagher.” Mickey smiled teasingly up at Ian’s face, which hardened just the smallest bit at his words as he chewed on his lip.

“Oh is that so?” Ian abruptly let go of Mickey’s face, turning his own head slowly in the low glow that radiated out around them like warmth, and grabbed the top of his right ear, pulling it down the smallest bit so that Mickey’s initials appeared suddenly, as if out of the blue, inked beautifully and eternally into the soft, pale, secret skin by his hairline.

“Holy fuck,” Mickey whispered, taking an involuntary step back as all the air in his lungs left him, and he realized all at once that he had been just as much a part of Ian as Ian had been of him, after all this time. “Why didn’t you say anything?” he wondered, reaching out a finger to lightly trace the ink strokes, feeling his own skin ripple at just how surprising Ian was, still, after all this time.

Ian’s ears were so high up – so perfectly pressed against his head – that Mickey would have been surprised if _anyone_ were ever to notice them, especially with his hair growing longer over the past few weeks, subtle curls forming at the sides that were once almost shaved to his scalp.

“So you wanna marry me, hm?” Ian asked instead, ignoring his question completely as he reached that hand back out, tracing his thumb along Mickey’s stubbled jaw, causing the heat in Mickey’s face to increase exponentially as his heart stuttered.

“So you wanna answer my question?”

Ian eyed him then, and Mickey saw the way the happiness in his eyes faded slightly, a look of sadness crossing into them that set his teeth on edge, and he prepared himself for what he assumed was the worst.

~

Ian wasn’t mad that Mickey had gone through his things – in fact, he was glad of it; he was glad that maybe Mickey would know now – even just the smallest bit – just how much Ian had always loved him; how much he had always needed him; how much he’d always wanted to _be_ with him.

The tattoo had been his secret for well over a month now, and he had kept it – had been going to keep it for as long as was necessary, or as long as he possibly could – whichever came first. Even now, when faced with the possibility of forever, Ian _still_ didn’t want to tell Mickey why he had never mentioned it; but if there was ever going to be a time, he supposed this was it, because he clearly didn’t have another choice – Mickey wasn’t going to let him get away that easy.

“First, I want to know if you honestly want to marry me?” Ian asked. “One day, maybe?” Ian needed to know _that_ at least, so that he had something to hope for – to hold onto; so that his explanations may make a bit more sense to someone who wasn’t him – someone who still thought he was worth it.

Mickey sniffed loudly, hesitated, but he stood firm, as he always did in all things.

“Yes,” he replied simply, honestly – as if it were the easiest decision of his life – and Ian felt the tears returning to his eyes as his heart fucking overflowed.

“I’ve always thought about spending my life with you,” he admitted, the words tumbling out as he raised his hand once more to trail a thumb down over Mickey’s cheek, over his lip. “Ever since that first night I climbed into your car; but, why would _you_ want to spend your life with _me_? I mean, I’m bipolar, right? I can’t ever guarantee shit, Mickey. Why should you have to live with that? Why wouldn’t you want something more?” Ian stopped, trying his best to compose himself as Mickey stared back at him, his blue eyes full of so much understanding that Ian didn’t know if he’d be able to finish. “I mean,” he continued. “I always kind of assumed that maybe one day, you _would_ want something more – something more than _me_ – that what I felt was so unbelievably one sided. Sure, I know you love me but, I thought the future – being together – I thought that was something only I thought about, which is why I didn’t tell you about the tattoo; I just…I dunno. It sort of became a secret part of you that only I had and that…that was something I could hold onto when you finally left me and…”

“You didn’t listen to it,” Mickey said suddenly, interrupting him, and a small huff of air escaped quietly through his nose, and Ian had no idea what he meant, but it hadn’t been a question.

“Huh?”

Mickey’s face went suddenly soft, calm, and a small smile pulled up the corner of his mouth, as if he were validated somehow – as if he were inexplicably happy at _something_.

Mickey reached down then without a word, slipping his hand into the front pocket of Ian’s jeans and pulling out his Mickey phone.

“Unlock it,” he demanded, his voice sure, so Ian did without question, and Mickey at once took it back from him.

Ian watched as he tapped his way absently into the voice-notes app, and immediately clicked onto the single saved file that was in there – his whispered rant that he had sent to Ian in New York.

“No!” Ian exclaimed suddenly, his heart nearly bursting through his ribcage in panic as he grabbed the phone back from Mickey’s hands. “I don’t want to hear the end!”

“What?” Mickey raised an eyebrow, confused, and he almost looked affronted. “Why not?”

Ian felt stupid, but he didn’t see the harm in telling him – he basically already had.

“I wanted to save it – to hold onto it I guess, like the tattoo – in case…” he trailed off, swallowing a lump in his throat. “In case something _did_ happen to us or, in case you decided being with me _was_ too much, and I would have a little something left of you – something I’d never heard you say, and maybe it would be like you were there talking to me…”

Mickey was staring at him, his forehead pulling together in a look so full of love that Ian thought his heart was going to burst before Mickey reached out gently again without saying anything, taking the phone back in his hands.

“Trust me,” he whispered, tapping his way back in and sliding his finger along the time-stamp until he got to the very end of the voice-note, with only about ten seconds left. “Listen.”

He held the phone out, and Ian was looking him dead in the eyes as he finally pressed play, Mickey’s voice coming quietly – sleepily – out from the other end, like music.

“… _but what the fuck do I know Gallagher, hmm? I don’t know much about a lot of things I guess but, I know I wanna be with you instead of nobody; I know I wanna be with you – all the fucked up versions of you and us together. Fuck, I think I wanna marry you. Jesus. You wanna marry me? Fuck it, marry me.”_

Ian felt his lips part at those final words as the phone suddenly went silent as the grave, the echo of Mickey’s voice hanging between them for a moment as the blood rushed into his head, his ears, his heart. If he had known that those were Mickey’s final words, Ian would have listened to the whole thing that very first night, one month be damned.

_One month!?Jesus._

“But we had only been together for like a month…”

“And I knew,” Mickey cut in, and there wasn’t a single hint of doubt in his words. “I knew it then, and I know it now.”

The tears in Ian’s eyes were no longer threatening, they were falling freely, and Mickey came forward at once, sliding a hand along the side of Ian’s face as he pushed himself up, capturing Ian’s mouth with his own, and Ian closed his eyes to the weight of him – the weight of all that they were – feeling the tears trail down his cheeks as the warmth of Mickey’s mouth entered into his entire being, igniting him from the inside out, his thumb tracing back and forth, back and forth behind his ear, over those two small letters that held more meaning than any words that had ever been spoken.

“Every single thing about who you are, Ian,” Mickey whispered then, his breath hot against Ian’s lips before he kissed him hard once more. “Will always be enough for me. Besides, a Milkovich always keeps his promise…”

Ian felt a breath hitch in his throat – felt suddenly for the first time in his entire life that he was actually fucking _enough_ – and his chest was suddenly warm with something like euphoria; but his brows furrowed at Mickey’s last statement, and a smile played on his lips as he nudged Mickey’s nose with his own, breathing him in.

“Is that so?”

“Mmm.”

“And what promise are you keeping?”

Mickey pulled back, his eyes shifting over Ian’s forehead, his freckles, his lips.

“You don’t remember?”

“I remember a certain promise you made once,” Ian teased, wrapping his arms around Mickey’s waist, grabbing his ass harshly with a playful squeeze. “I wanna hear you say it.”

Mickey smiled up at him, and there was a mischievous sort of look within his eyes that made Ian’s stomach tighten.

“I promised I’d never leave you again.”

“Yea,” Ian sighed. “Yea you fuckin’ did.”

Ian pulled Mickey into him then, felt the heat of his buzzed body pressing firmly – sturdily –into his own, and he kissed him once more, biting at his bottom lip as he tasted his beer and that promise. Ian not only remembered that promise – which Mickey had made to him as he had sat on his lap the first night they had come home – he remembered everything; that was his gift, and sometimes his curse; that was why he held onto so many things.

Ian also remembered telling Mickey once that he had thought he had loved his ex-boyfriend, Trevor; but now – as he stood enshrouded in Mickey’s grasp, hidden away from the world, he realized that he had been wrong – he hadn’t loved him; it hadn’t even been close. Ian hadn’t even known what it meant to love then, but he didn’t blame Trevor for that in the slightest, because it wasn’t his fault that he just hadn’t been…perfect.

But Mickey; Mickey was perfect, in every single way.

“So you’ll marry me?” Ian asked finally, pulling his head back at once, looking down into those blue eyes that belonged to him just as much as they did Mickey.

Mickey bit at his neck, causing Ian to laugh quietly into his black hair.

“I’ll marry you,” Mickey replied, his head coming up, and Ian felt the smile on his face that nearly split it in fucking two. “Of course I’ll fucking marry you.”

~

Mickey didn’t think he had actually ever been this happy – hadn’t thought it was even possible to feel this way – mostly because he never had – and a part of him felt fucking stupid at the childish notion of _marriage_ , but a part of him, well, a part of him didn’t.

Sure, he’d been happy before; had been ecstatic, in love – all of those things with Ian – but this, this was something he didn’t think there were even words for. In fact, he had been happy when he had seen Ian’s tattoo for the first time, so perfectly hidden – like they had been for so long; and he’d been ecstatic when he’d realized that Ian had never actually even heard the entirety of his message to him, which was why he had never mentioned it once – not because he was saying no, but because he just hadn’t even known Mickey’d had the balls to ask in the first place; but Mickey had never felt anything like he had when Ian had asked if he’d marry him; it was like every bad thing he had ever done – every single thing that had been some sort of karmic mark against him – had already been forgiven, because Ian was a blessing, and Mickey knew that some people – people like him, with darkness surrounding them eternally – didn’t deserve blessings, and he had always been positive that the very nature of his life would prevent him from ever basking in their glory; that was until this very second.

Mickey reached up, turning Ian’s head once more so he could gently pull his soft, pink ear down and look at his initials, so dark against his porcelain skin, and Mickey felt contentedness seep so deep into his bones that he nearly forgot his family was still downstairs, waiting.

“Come on,” he sighed, letting Ian drape his arms over his shoulders one more time and pull him in – kissing him like their lives depended on it – before dragging him gently back down the stairs, where all three of his siblings were waiting patiently, even drunker than they were ten minutes before.

“So!?” Mandy exclaimed at once, eyebrows shooting up expectantly as she turned fully in her chair to look at them, causing Mickey to rub awkwardly at the back of his head, and Ian to shove his hands in his pockets – Mandy was always so fucking dramatic. “Oh fuck, come on guys!”

“He said yes,” Ian spat then, biting hard on his bottom lip, but a smile spread across his face, and Mickey thought absently that Ian could be fucking dramatic, too, apparently, and that he felt fucking ridiculous – felt like a complete loser – but he still couldn’t’ help the smile that pulled up the corners of his mouth as Ian eyed him then like they were the only two people in the entire goddamn world.

And fuck, they may as well have been.

“Ahhhh!” Mandy squealed, jumping up out of her chair before the words were barely out of Ian’s mouth and running towards Mickey, nearly tripping drunkenly over Iggy’s chair before she threw her arms around his neck, and Mickey caught the smallest glimpse of tears in her eyes.

“Yea yea okay,” he huffed, but squeezed her back. “Calm down.”

Colin set his beer bottle down abruptly then before standing from his place at the head of the table, cutting quite the sudden, imposing figure as he strolled casually towards Ian – Iggy eyeing him as he went – and Mickey let go of Mandy, wondering just what the fuck his brother was doing before Colin reached out, grabbing onto Ian’s collar tightly and jerking him slightly in towards him.

“You sure about this?” he asked, and there wasn’t even a smile on his face that hinted at him being at all facetious, and Ian’s own smile disappeared immediately.

Mickey knew this wasn’t one of those corny moments you see in the movies – where the big brother plays the role of protector; this was Colin _genuinely_ asking Ian if he was sure he wanted to do this – not just for Mickey, but for himself; because every Milkovich in that room knew that Ian wouldn’t just be marrying Mickey – he would be marrying this family; he would be marrying Mickey’s history; he would be marrying this life, and all their fucking secrets. No, this was Colin’s way of saying that Ian may not always like what he saw, and that he himself may not always be able to protect them.

It was asking a Hell of a lot more from him than any normal fiancé, and Colin needed to know that Ian could take it – could handle it – because once you were in, there was no turning back, even if you were – technically – out.

“Yea,” Ian admitted then, without even thinking about it, and he, too, cut quite the imposing figure as he stared back into Colin’s eyes – almost at the same level as his own – and it was Ian’s way of saying that yes, he could handle it – he had been handling it since the very first second – since before then, even – and he could handle it for as long as Mickey was by his side. “Yea Colin, I’m sure.”

“Good.”

“I’ll call the Justice,” Iggy put in then, standing up from his seat as he did up the button of his jacket. “We’ll do this tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow!?” Ian spat, glancing at Mickey with panicked, raised eyebrows, and Mickey felt just as surprised as Ian looked.

“Yea fuck that,” he hissed. “We’ll wait until we come back.”

“You sure?” Colin looked at him then, genuinely inquiring once more, and Mickey knew that his brother would move Heaven and fucking Earth itself if Mickey wanted to marry Ian tomorrow, which somehow just drove home the fact that he was making the right decision in choosing the porcelain red-head that stood still beside him, even though he had already known that.

Mickey eyed Ian – watched the tiny grin that pulled up the corner of his mouth – and he knew, without having to ask.

“I’m sure. We’ll wait.”

Mandy was crying harder than Mickey had ever seen her cry; her small, gentle frame shaking in the darkness as they stood on the front porch, saying goodbye.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” she sobbed, voice hitching in her throat, and Mickey bit _hard_ into his tongue to keep from breaking in front of her.

“Me?” he scoffed, managing to look the tiniest bit affronted. “Never.”

“Yea okay.” Ian smiled, reaching his hand out to softly tousle the back of Mickey’s head. “Tough guy.”

“Take care of him?” Mandy asked suddenly, eyeing Ian then as if it were the single most important thing she was ever going to ask him, and Ian bent down in answering, pulling her tightly into him as if they had been friends for years, squeezing her tightly before letting go.

“I will.”

“And you…” She turned back to Mickey, wiping a tear from her eye. “Don’t fuck this up!”

Mickey eyed Ian again, and Jesus, he wouldn’t even dream of it.

“I won’t.”

“I love you,” she sniffed, and that was the most important thing that she was ever going to say to Mickey, and he knew it.

“I know.” That was all he said, and it was everything he knew he needed to give her; because she smiled, hugged him for just a second, and turned, striding down those front steps – fairly elegantly for a drunk girl from South Side – and into the back of the Range Rover without ever looking back.

His Mandy; his stoic, unwavering Mandy.

“Fuck you guys,” Iggy spat then, coming out the door behind them and squeezing his way past. “Still don’t know what the fuck you see in each other but, good luck.”

Mickey actually laughed, a smile that was so genuinely real spreading across his face that Iggy honestly winked at him like he _cared_ before strolling down the stairs with an errant swagger, and that, too, was enough.

“Don’t get Chlamydia!” Mickey yelled at him, just as Iggy opened the back door of the car to slide in beside their sister, and he didn’t look back either as he blindly flipped Mickey the bird before shutting the door.

“Milkoviches,” Ian snorted, causing Mickey to wonder absently what his own goodbyes had been like, and if they broke his heart as much as his own was breaking now.

Colin came back out from around the side of the house then, where he had been chattering absently on an important phone call; he straightened the sleeves of his jacket as he came up the steps, eyeing his youngest brother, then Ian, nodding at them both as if approving of all that they were, and all that they could be.

“Your passports and birth certificates are finally ready at the office, I’ll bring them by tomorrow.”

Mickey simply nodded, the idea of being gone in 48 hours sinking into his bones, but he also felt a sudden wave of relief, because as of now at least, he didn’t have to say goodbye to Colin.

_How the fuck am I supposed to say goodbye to Colin_?

“See you then,” Ian sighed, taking the burden of speaking away from Mickey, and they both watched Colin go, sliding in with the rest of his siblings before all three cars disappeared from sight, and Ian and Mickey were once again alone.

Ian was sitting up in bed, freshly showered, his legs crossed underneath of him, waiting patiently as Mickey came through the door, doing up the knot at the top of his pajama pants. There was a familiar look in Ian’s eye that Mickey knew well – a look that had been missing for days now – and at the sight of it, Mickey stopped tying his knot.

“Should I take these off or…?”

“Fuck yes,” Ian hissed, throwing back the blanket, and Mickey saw at once that his dick was already hard – suddenly there on full display – and it sent all the blood within Mickey’s body south into his own; he felt like he had been waiting for this for decades. “But first I want to show you something.”

“Oh I think you’re already showing me quite enough there big guy,” Mickey joked, but watched curiously as Ian got out of bed and strolled naked to his backpack in the corner of the room, his muscles shifting suddenly into shadows in the half-light before reaching in and pulling out what looked like a photograph.

“Look at this,” he said, handing the picture over to Mickey, so Mickey took it.

Ian’s hair was redder than he had ever seen it, and curlier than it had ever been since; Mickey grinned to himself as he stared down, realizing that Ian didn’t have a single fucking tooth in the front of his whole mouth as he smiled stupidly out from a porcelain face that was basically just one giant freckle.

“Jesus Christ you look like Ronald McDonald…”

“Oh fuck off Mick,” Ian interrupted, jested, pushing Mickey’s shoulder lightly before grabbing it tight and pulling him in close, nuzzling his nose into Mickey’s neck – smelling him like he always did – causing Mickey’s flesh to ripple and his dick to harden even further. “Look at it again.”

Mickey brought the picture up closer to his face, eyeing his present-day Ian, who strolled casually back over to the bed and sat against the headboard, petting absently at his cock, which wasn’t really putting Mickey in the mood to look at anything else, but he obeyed anyways, glancing back down at the picture and taking in more of the details.

Something about it all seemed suddenly familiar, as if he were having déjà-vu as he took in the colours of a bright summer day; the white and green pinstripes of that jersey; and Mickey remembered all at once his one summer spent in Little League. As if on instinct, he shifted his eyes to the background, a faint memory of the red-headed boy that had always held his attention coming back into his brain like a lightning bolt, and he knew already that he would be there; and when he finally saw himself – looking over at Ian with the same look in his eye that he knew he still got sometimes – he couldn’t actually believe they’d come this far.

That they had made it.

“Holy fuck,” he whispered, not for the first time that night, and didn’t really have the words to say anything else.

“Apparently it’s always been me, Milkovich,” Ian admitted, a wry smile teasing his lips. “Now come here.”

Mickey wanted to make a sarcastic comment, but he didn’t, because Ian was right; maybe it _had_ always been him, he just hadn’t known it.

Mickey set the picture gently on their dresser, leaning it up against the lamp that sat on top so it faced outwards into the room, as if their past was keeping silent, steady watch over their future.

“So are you saying I get to be fucked by my fiancé tonight?” Mickey asked then, undoing the knot he had just finished tying, causing his pants to fall down around his ankles, and he stepped out of them, strolling casually towards the end of the bed; he knew the word was setting off sparks within his own chest, and he could tell by the way Ian’s eyes narrowed that a similar feeling was bursting within his own.

“Actually,” Ian mumbled, crawling his way to the end of the bed and sitting up on his knees so that he could take Mickey in his arms, bend his head down, and press his lips into his ear. “I want _you_ to fuck _me_ ,” he whispered, and Mickey nearly choked.

“What!?” Mickey felt his eyebrows skyrocket as he stepped involuntarily back out of Ian’s grasp, causing Ian’s face to go red, but he shrugged despite it there in the half-light, rubbing absently at the back of his neck.

“I want you to fuck me.” Ian sat up then, swinging his legs out of bed before strolling back to the bag in the corner. “Nobody ever has,” he continued, “and I want you to be the one to do it and…and I want you to do it in this.” Ian reached back down into his bag then, a cocky grin playing on his lips as he pulled out an old, blue baseball cap that was well curved and faded.

“You want me to fuck you…in that...” Mickey eyed the cap.

“Yes. Whatta you say, Little League?” Ian held the cap out with a seriously devious eyebrow.

“Did you just call me _Little League_?”

“Well,” Ian sighed, tilting his head to the side as he looked directly down at Mickey’s hardening dick. “Not so little anymore, I guess…”

A huff of air escaped Mickey’s nose then in amusement as he felt the heat spread throughout his chest – his stomach – but at the same time, a sudden burst of nerves wracked him; he had never _fucked_ a man before; had never been inside of one in that way; had never really _wanted_ to, in fact – even when he had spent those two months in prison and the idea had seriously played on his mind; but those words trickling their way out of Ian’s mouth like liquid gold as he held that stupid fucking hat made his own mouth go dry, and he swallowed hard; and although this weird ball cap fantasy may be the most ridiculously simple thing Mickey had ever heard of doing for pleasure, the idea turned him on immensely.

And fuck, if they were going to do it, at least they’d be each other’s firsts; and fuck, if they were going to do it, they were going _all_ the way past third base.

“Are you sure?” Mickey’s cock was suddenly hard as a rock – like fucking steel, actually – and he reached down absently as he stared back at his fiancé, tugging gently at his tip, stroking his hand up and around carefully, spreading the precum that was already forming in his slit.

Ian watched Mickey’s busy hand intently, and he bit at his bottom lip as he stared, dragging his teeth across it slowly, his mouth falling open a little as a low breath escaped.

“Oh fuck yes,” he panted finally, and came forward at once, reaching out and sliding the cap backwards onto Mickey’s head before stepping back to look at him, and Mickey was fairly certain Ian’s dick got even harder – even pinker.

“This workin for you, baby?’ Mickey teased, reaching up with both hands and adjusting the cap so it fit snuggly against his head, causing Ian’s mouth to fall open; but apparently Ian was no longer in the mood for teasing.

“Holy fuck, Mickey,” he breathed, and it was so quiet, desperate, full of hunger, that Mickey felt his cock twitch. “You’re so fucking hot.” Ian stepped forward then without warning, and Mickey barely had time to prepare himself before Ian bent down, scooping his arms under Mickey’s ass and lifting him up into the air, their mouths coming together with so much force and presence that Mickey’s tongue didn’t even feel like his own anymore as Ian turned them both around and threw him hard onto the bed.

Ian stood at the end, looking down at him for a second, and Mickey made his move; reaching up deliberately, he slid both hands slowly over the ball cap, flexing his arms the best he could as he interlocked his fingers under his head, and laid there like that – dick hard against his stomach – looking up at Ian through narrowed eyes, and he felt like a fucking sports model on the cover of one of the gay magazines he used to steal from the corner shops, and Ian must have agreed, because he turned away suddenly, putting his hands on his hips and breathing loudly, intentionally, as he glanced at the bedroom door, causing Mickey to bite his tongue to keep from bursting.

“That bad is it?”

“ _Bad_!?” Ian scoffed, rubbing a hand hard over his face, as if composing himself. “Jesus Christ Mickey, I literally almost just came.”

“Just from looking at me!?” Mickey chuckled quietly to himself as a proud, ridiculous smile spread its way across his face. “This must be some fucking hat…”

~

It _was_ some fucking hat – it _really_ fucking was. Ian stared at the door, letting his heart slow and the blood recede from his dick just a little bit before turning back towards Mickey; he looked like a fucking porn star again – his blue eyes even bluer with that goddamn blue Cubs cap on his head – and Ian didn’t know why just that one little thing – that one, stupid fucking hat made him look like the hardest, sexiest, toughest man he’d ever seen; not to mention the way the muscles in his arms – the muscles all over every inch of him – flexed the smallest bit as he moved, causing Ian’s entire lower half to ache, and Jesus Christ he couldn’t believe he was going to marry him.

“Fuck, come here,” Ian sighed, finally shifting down onto the bed, his eyes never leaving Mickey’s as he shouldered himself in between his thighs, squeezing them harshly in his hands – feeling their thickness under his palms as he kissed them, bit at them, trailed his tongue upwards – tasting the salt of his skin – before finally taking Mickey’s already hard cock, steadily dripping precum, into his hand and sliding it slowly into his mouth; and the way in which Mickey sucked in a sharp breath at the sensation – the way his face contorted, that baseball cap pulling forward a bit as his forehead creased – made Ian’s actual heart hurt with how badly he wanted to be fucked by Mickey – to be fucked by Mickey looking like _that_.

Ian sucked, and sucked hard – if Mickey was going to be inside of him, he wanted him to be as wet as he possibly could be; sure they had lube, but if Ian _was_ going to do this – which he was actually a little nervous about – he wanted it to go as smoothly – no pun intended – as it possibly could.

Ian reached his other hand down then, rubbing his thumb over and around Mickey’s asshole – up his perineum for that added pleasure – pressing with just enough force that Mickey’s eyes closed and his head fell back, his breath coming in short little puffs that made his stomach _and_ Ian’s dick twitch as Ian forced more precum out of him, and all Ian could taste were his own nerves, and Mickey’s salt.

“Okay okay stop,” Mickey panted suddenly after a minute, one of his thick arms shooting out, and he pressed his palm hard against Ian’s forehead, pushing him off of his dick so that he wouldn’t cum before he’d even looked at Ian’s ass.

Ian pulled away, sitting back onto his ankles as he wiped the wetness away from his mouth, tugged absently on himself, feeling his own precum between his fingers before sliding it down over his veins.

“You ready?” he asked, though he didn’t know why – Mickey didn’t have the hard job tonight, but he thought maybe he was asking himself more than anything.

Mickey just stared at the ceiling for a minute, nodding absently as he rested his free hand on his chest – probably feeling his heartbeat slow beneath his palm – while the other still sat, tucked beautifully underneath his head.

~

Mickey finally pushed himself up onto his knees so he could face Ian there in the middle of the bed, feeling his almost-orgasm drift slowly, slowly away as Ian let go of his own dick, sliding his wet hands up along Mickey’s jaw, over his ears, then up further, to the top of his head, petting absently over the cap that still sat firmly in place as he kissed him softly, gently, deeply, and Mickey could taste the salt of himself on Ian’s tongue for a brief second before Ian pulled away, staring down into his eyes as the small smile on his lips ebbed away a little, like he was mentally preparing himself for what was about to happen – like he was mentally preparing himself to be fucked.

It was almost comical to Mickey, considering how the first time anyone had fucked _him_ – the first time _Ian_ had fucked him – there was no preparation whatsoever, he had just bent over and fucking taken it – the pain with the pleasure – and fuck, it had been worth it. Now it was as easy as breathing, all of Ian entering into him like air into gasping lungs – that beautiful _something_ entering into him – and although it wasn’t actually a part of him, it still felt like it was in the moment – like they were simply just extensions of each other.

“Relax,” Mickey breathed, smiling against Ian’s mouth, causing their breath to come back hot in his face, and something about that word tickled his insides – made them tense and harden; he was so used to Ian being the one in control – making the demands – and now here he was, giving him instruction – as if _he_ were the more experienced between them – and he was going to do it – he was going to fuck Ian like he wanted him to, and he was going to love every second of it.

Ian touched the tip of his nose against Mickey’s then, pushing it up the smallest bit in a move born out of pure affection before he shifted himself around in front of him, settling himself onto his hands and knees in front of Mickey on the bed, and suddenly Mickey had a whole new view of Ian that he had never quite seen before. There was a dusting of reddy hair all over the backs of his thighs, and it worked its way up his ass, over his cheeks, disappearing almost completely before it reached his sacrum, and somehow, the skin there was even paler than the rest of him, and it set Mickey’s insides on fire.

“Lube,” Ian sighed, a worried tone entering into his voice as he glanced back at Mickey over his shoulder, like maybe Mickey would actually forget and try to go in without it; in all honesty, Mickey thought he _might_ have forgotten, with the scene he was currently looking down at being so goddamn distracting and all...

“Not yet.” Mickey grabbed onto Ian’s ass, squeezing his cheeks harshly, causing a hiss of air to escape Ian’s lips and his eyes to close as Mickey pulled them gently apart, eyed him, and fuck, _he was going to do it_.

Mickey leaned forward, his nerves slowly beginning to disappear as he spread Ian open as far as he could before kissing his left cheek, then his right, biting at them with just enough force that he left small, red ovals all over his skin, every new mark making Ian moan a little in pleasure – his eyes to squeeze further shut – and Mickey could imagine everything he was feeling.

Mickey shifted his mouth then, feeling his dick twitch and rub absently against the back of Ian’s thighs as he stuck his tongue out and put it _there_ – right there – causing Ian to sit forward at once, pulling away from the sudden sensation and pressure, but Mickey had learned from the best, and he gripped hard onto Ian’s thighs, holding him in place.

“Shit Mickey,” Ian breathed, his arms giving out, and watching him bite into the blanket below his face gave Mickey the courage to go deeper, to tongue him faster, make him as wet as he could.

“That good?” he panted after a couple minutes, pulling away for a brief moment to catch his breath, and he thought the way Ian nodded silently into the bed sheets was fucking adorable.“You ready?” he asked – enjoying that he got to say it this time instead of Ian – and Mickey hoped that he would say yes, because fuck, he sure as shit was.

“Yea.” Ian pulled his elbows up underneath of him, and Mickey’s belly tightened. “Yea.”

Mickey didn’t need to be told twice; he sat up onto his knees, reaching over to the side table and grabbing the lube, emptying nearly half of what was left in the bottle into his hand before rubbing it down over his head to his balls – reaching out with the leftovers and massaging it gently onto Ian’s opening.

“Fuck that’s cold,” Ian chuckled, his voice breathy, but Mickey knew it wouldn’t be cold for long.

“Breathe,” he commanded, taking hold of himself near the tip, and Ian did – he tensed a little – his muscles becoming more prominent – but Mickey could hear him inhaling deeply, exhaling steadily, and he pressed himself against him then – just enough that Ian could get used to the sensation – before shifting his hips forward, and Ian opened to him, a whine escaping from somewhere deep within his freckled chest as just the head of Mickey’s dick went into him before he eased back. “You okay?” he asked, and fuck, he was surprised at just how delicate he was being – he didn’t want to hurt him.

“Fuck yes,” Ian admitted, his eyes still closed. “Do it again. Deeper.”

Mickey felt his face flush, and he was sure his entire chest reddened as he pressed himself back in, slowly, slowly, carefully, and only when he had gone about halfway in and Ian said his name rather loudly did he dare look away.

“Holy fuck Ian,” he gasped, watching Ian’s face tense and his mouth drop open, and his ass was suddenly tightening around him like a fucking vice, consuming him inch by inch, and Mickey had to stop before he fucking blew. “You’re so fucking tight.”

“Not as tight as you,” Ian breathed, smiled a little, finally opening his eyes to gaze back at Mickey through heavy lids, and suddenly – without warning –he rocked back, causing Mickey to go in nearly all the way, and his hands shot out at once, holding Ian’s ass in place.

“No no fuck wait wait wait!” Mickey felt Ian’s body pulse around him then as he laughed, and Jesus fucking Christ, Mickey didn’t think he stood a chance of holding on another second. “Stop fucking laughing!”

Ian sucked his bottom lip into his mouth at once, his face going red as he tried really hard not to laugh – not to move a fucking muscle – and Mickey closed his eyes, breathed, and it was probably about two minutes later when he finally shifted forward with one thrust, and he was all the way in – up to his balls – causing a loud _unghhh_ to escape Ian’s mouth, as if just feeling the presence of Mickey inside of him was enough to send him into oblivion.

Mickey slid himself out, registering the slick sound of wetness – the warmth that tightened everything within him from chest to kneecaps – before slipping his way back in, and he breathed, and he breathed, because there was no way he was going to cum before Ian – because Mickey was going to show Ian what it was he felt when Ian fucked him; he was going to show Ian just what it was he did to him; he was going to show Ian what it felt like as the head of his dick rubbed against his prostate as he came.

~

Ian had no fucking idea how Mickey had ever managed to take his entire dick in the first place, let alone do it night after night; Mickey’s was smaller than his own, but Jesus, it may as well have been his entire forearm for all Ian knew.

It was painful, but as Mickey moved slowly – gently – within him, the pain gradually began to give way to pleasure, a warm feeling of pressure and fullness spreading throughout his entire body, making his balls tighten and his muscles tense.

Suddenly though – as if Mickey had decided the practice test was over – he started moving faster, the bones in his hips hitting hard against Ian’s ass, sending a whole new wave of _something_ into his lower half, and Ian could physically feel the precum Mickey was milking out of him, dripping down onto the bed sheets below.

“Fuck me, baby,” Ian whined, and he would have been embarrassed at those words – at how high his voice went – but he was too busy not giving a flying fuck about anything beyond the unfamiliar feeling that was starting to build deep, deep inside him.

“Come here,” Mickey hissed suddenly, pulling quickly out of him. “I wanna fucking look at you.” Mickey wrapped a massive arm around Ian’s waist then, flipping him over onto his back as if he were nothing more than a fucking ragdoll, and Jesus, Ian had never been more aroused in his entire life.

Ian felt his face contort then – his lips part – as he stared up at Mickey in that motherfucking hat, the edges of which were starting to darken with sweat, which just made his mouth drop open even further as Mickey hooked his hands under Ian’s knees suddenly, pushing his legs nearly all the way up to his shoulders before taking hold of himself once more and slipping his way back inside.

“Oh my fuuu…” Ian couldn’t even get the words out as his head fell back, and Mickey leaned forward then in answering, pushing himself in as far as he could go so he could hook his hands around the back of Ian’s neck – his elbows resting on Ian’s chest – and hold his head up, forcing Ian to look him in the eye as he started fucking him – _really_ fucking him – the sound of skin hitting skin echoing around the room, causing Ian to reach down almost immediately, take his dick into his hand, and start jacking himself off to the exact beat of Mickey’s cock inside of him as his other hand went up instinctively and held Mickey’s face.

“Fuck, Ian,” Mickey grunted, his entire chest – his shoulders and his face – going scarlet as he exerted more force than Ian had ever seen, and Jesus Christ he was going to fucking die, he was sure of it; his heart was jack-hammering inside his chest, and he felt his whole face shift into that look of heartbreak and euphoria that Mickey always got when he was about to cum as that tiny pressure inside of him blossomed suddenly, and there was so much _feeling_ in so many different places that they all merged into one single sensation, and Ian actually fucking yelled.

“MickeyI’mGunnaFuckingCum,” he spat, and he wasn’t altogether sure he even said anything at all as he felt his mouth drop all the way open – felt his eyes nearly roll into the back of his head – as something detonated within him like a fucking atom bomb, the warmth inside his prostate reverberating suddenly out into his balls and his dick and his ass and his pelvis and all he fucking knew was that there was a heartbeat somewhere inside his head that told him he _was_ still alive as he came – _hard_ – massive ropes of his own cum shooting up onto Mickey’s chest, and he shook violently for what had to be at least ten seconds, his thighs trembling – tightening around Mickey’s waist – and by the time he came back down, down, down to earth, Mickey had stopped his thrusting entirely, and was simply laying still, looking down into Ian’s eyes as his hot breath panted down into his face – as his sweat dripped down onto his face – and Ian thought maybe he _had_ actually died and gone to fucking Heaven as he looked into those eyes, until Mickey smiled at him, leaned down, kissed him hard, and Ian had never felt anything like whatever the fuck all of this was before.

“That’s what you do to me,” Mickey said suddenly between breaths, panting hard as he bit Ian’s bottom lip before pulling away, sitting back up onto his knees behind him. “That’s what you do to me every fuckin’ time.”

There was no way, Ian was sure of it – there was no way Ian could make someone else feel like _this_ , over and over again.

“No wonder you fuckin’ love me,” he joked anyways, closing his eyes as he calmed his pounding heart, listened to the quiet around them as he breathed, and felt the weight of Mickey’s words within him.

“Among other things.” Mickey patted absently at Ian’s knees – rubbed his hands up and down over his thighs – and Ian jerked suddenly at the sensitivity he felt like an electric shock as Mickey thrust forward then without warning, the cock that was still within him moving once more as Mickey took hold of those thighs, quite clearly needing to finish.

“Oh fuck slow slow slow,” Ian begged, but Mickey only went faster, his face beginning to shift as he stared down into Ian’s eyes, and Ian actually began to feel the pleasure start to build again as Mickey thrust like a fucking piston, but it didn’t last long, because Ian noticed that all-too-familiar look cross his face then – heartbreak mixed with euphoria – and Ian couldn’t believe he was about to watch Mickey fall apart right there inside of him, and he wondered absently if he was going to be able to feel it. “Cum in me baby,” he begged, his voice whiney, and Mickey lost it.

Ian was sure in the moment that that’s all they were ever going to be: heartbreak, and euphoria.

A loud, long series of _ungh ungh ungh_ escaped Mickey’s lips with every final thrust, until he pushed his hips forward suddenly – pushed himself in hard and deep – and Ian _did_ feel it, the release of warmth that made him wetter than he had ever been as Mickey’s dick pulsed inside of him, emptying almost entirely – he was sure of it.

“Fuuckk!” he cried, falling forward at once, his hands pressing hard against Ian’s chest as he shook apart against him – inside of him – and Ian wrapped his hands automatically over Mickey’s on his chest, holding them both together as Mickey came back, back, back down to earth.

“Look at it,” Ian said then, dreamily, causing Mickey to open his eyes and readjust that baseball cap before raising an errant eyebrow in his direction – as if wondering what the Hell he meant – before it clearly registered, and he sat back at once, his eyes shifting downwards as he finally pulled out, and Ian could feel his cum dripping its way out of him.

“Fuck that’s hot.” Mickey’s chest was heaving, but he reached a hand out anyways – just like Ian had done a thousand times in the past – and touched at it, smearing it around his sensitive asshole a little, and then in a move so unlike Mickey fucking Milkovich – but also _so_ much like him at the same time – he brought those fingers up into his mouth then to taste himself – to taste Ian – and Ian thought he had surely found the hottest man on the face of the fucking planet.

“Come here, baby.” Ian sat up, wrapping his hands tightly around the sides of Mickey’s face and kissing him deeply as he pulled him down on top of him, letting him sprawl out completely – limp and half-dead from exhaustion – his own cum on Mickey’s chest suddenly warm between them. “You wanna try that again sometime?” he asked, curious, causing Mickey to tilt his head up and look at him.

“Maybe, sometime...”

Ian smiled to himself at that, because he knew without having to pry any further that Mickey was thinking the same thing he was – that that had been some of the best sex they had ever had, but something about it just hadn’t felt…right; like they each had a certain place – a certain position – in each other’s lives, in every sense of the word.

“You still wanna marry me?”

“What kinda dumb fuckin’ question is that!?”

Ian shrugged, the movement causing Mickey’s head to lull slightly to the side; he could smell the sweat coming off of Mickey and that baseball cap...

 _That baseball cap_ , he thought. _That baseball cap at least is going to make a reappearance in the_ very _near future._

“Well I just wasn’t sure if you still knew after eating my assh…”

“When you know you know, y’know?” Mickey interrupted then, his hand coming up absently to rest sleepily on Ian’s jaw as it always did, and Ian smiled, because he _did_ know.

He had always known.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~I'm not even sorry if you blushed.  
> ~I listened to the song The Book of Love by Peter Gabriel on repeat for some of this - if you listen to it, you'll know why; also if you listen to it and don't cry as you think of everything Gallavich, there is something wrong with you! (but not really)  
> ~I also listened to the song Rainbow by Kacey Musgraves because it just reminds me of something soft Mickey would play for Ian just so he knew how much he loved him.  
> ~*Returning to the chapter count - I have an entire ending planned in my head, and it is BIG. It may be a couple weeks between postings as there are a LOT of moving parts, and after investing so much time, I want nothing more than to get it perfect, so please be patient!


	15. Heartbreak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Triggers are pulled, love is made, and tears fall as Mickey and Ian spend their last day together as they prepare to leave the only home they've ever known.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you all for your patience! The end has come together in my mind, but getting it onto paper is a lot harder than I thought it would be!  
> I unfortunately don't have a lot of time to write these days, but I am trying my best to get it to you as soon as possible!  
> WE ARE SO CLOSE!  
> As always, feel free to follow me on Twitter or Instagram @WhatsaMattavich for art, excerpts, updates, or whatever!

Ian stood in the doorway, a new, overwhelming sense of contentedness drifting through him as a slight breeze drifted in through the open window above their bed; it was officially June, and the temperature was finally starting to stick above fifty – especially at night; Ian didn’t really understand it, but he appreciated the passing of time these days – he appreciated the way they could sleep without all the blankets now, bare flesh sticking out from the covers at all hours of the night; bare flesh that they could touch during random, quiet moments; bare flesh that would ripple, make their own hairs rise; bare flesh that would sweat just a little bit more as the heat in the room – and between their bodies – climbed.

That promise he had made to himself was still holding strong and holding fast; Ian was getting to have Mickey in all the ways he had first imagined – and now, he would get to have Mickey in every single way he could possibly think of and then some, for the rest of his fucking life.

Ian had had Mickey in early spring, when it had been cool – when rain had fallen and their breath came out in clouded puffs, fogging the glass; when collars had been turned up against the rising wind that screamed its way off of Lake Michigan; when geese had flown overhead, slowly returning to their northern homes as Mickey cursed them for being so fucking annoying.

Now, he was going to get to have him in summer, and despite not knowing what a summer in a different home looked like, Ian _did_ know that there were going to be times that their bodies would be so hot – so sticky pressed up against each other – that they would want nothing more than to be apart – to be apart for some fucking respite from the humidity and the sun; but it wouldn’t matter, because he also knew that they were still going to wake up in the middle of the night, sweating, because their bodies had found their way back to each other, despite their wakeful protests.

Ian leaned his naked weight against the doorjamb, feeling that same breeze tickle the hair at his thighs as he watched Mickey sleep, and he smiled quietly to himself – smiled at the way in which Mickey’s bare skin rippled now, and although Ian knew it was probably because of the open window, he kind of hoped it was because Mickey knew – even in dreaming – that Ian wasn’t there beside him.

As if on cue, Mickey shifted slightly, his arm shooting out as if reaching for him, and Ian felt his face soften, his heart squeeze, and fuck if it wasn’t the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his life.

Mickey was still wearing that godforsaken baseball cap; it was still backwards on his head, his face turned towards the empty space in the bed beside him as he laid on his stomach, the single sheet pulled up to just under his ass; all of him was so silent – so soft – that Ian at once needed two things: he needed to remember this moment, forever; and he needed Mickey, badly.

Tiptoeing across the room, Ian grabbed his phone from where it sat on the side table before walking back to his place in the doorway, and he crouched a little, framing everything perfectly as he took a picture of his fiancé naked – completely innocent and lost to the world in that fucking hat. Ian immediately saved it to the home-screen of his phone – payback, he knew, for the naked photo Mickey had had of him for weeks; and not that Ian was biased at all, but he thought his was way, way better.

The lamp beside Mickey was still on, making everything just the littlest bit warmer; Ian didn’t even consider turning it off as he strolled back to the bed, petting himself absently as he looked down at Mickey before glancing at the clock; it was just past three in the morning, and Ian desperately wanted sleep, but he wanted something else even more. Sliding in beside him, Ian grabbed Mickey’s outstretched, tattooed hand and lifted it, shifting himself under his grasp and laying it back onto his waist, where the warmth of it only made Ian harder than he already was.

“Hey,” he whispered, reaching out to trail the backs of his fingers softly down Mickey’s face. “You awake?”

Mickey shifted a little, a small, almost imperceptible smile pulling up one corner of his mouth.

“I am now,” he groaned, and Ian almost would have felt bad for waking him, but just hearing his voice in the quiet of the night made his heartbeat quicken, and he wondered absently if that would ever go away.

He hoped not.

“I can’t sleeeep,” he sighed, grabbing Mickey’s hand once more from off his waist and sliding it down, down, until it was resting firmly on his dick.

“Again!?” Mickey almost sounded affronted at the idea, but his smile only widened as his eyes finally fluttered open, and the sight of them in the warm shadows made Ian lose control entirely.

“Yea,” he spat, wrapping his arm around Mickey’s waist and pulling him with enough force that Mickey was at once on top of him, his naked body pressed tightly against his own, and Ian could feel the warmth between his thighs as the blood inside of Mickey moved south. “You got a problem with that!?”

Mickey didn’t answer, but his face went suddenly soft and serious as he gazed down at Ian then with beautiful, tired eyes; it was as if his heartbeat, too, was quickening at just the sound of Ian’s voice in the night – in fact, Ian could feel it now, hammering against his own chest – and Ian thought that maybe Mickey was wondering – as he looked down at him – if it would ever go away; and Ian could tell that he was also hoping it didn’t.

Ian stared back up at him in the quiet, their gaze so intense – full of so much sudden heat, desire, and love – that Ian didn’t know how the fuck they hadn’t torn each other apart completely; but something inside of him didn’t want to – not just yet; he wanted to simply _see_ him for a moment – he wanted to remember the way Mickey looked back at him – and Ian almost considered reaching back out for his phone to take another picture, because this was a look that was saying so much more than _I want you_ ; this was a look that was saying everything they _could_ ever say without needing words, and it was enough to make Ian implode with a feeling he had never quite known before.

But just like that, it was gone, and a smile spread across Mickey’s face as he tore his eyes from Ian’s, glancing over his hair, his face, his lips…

“Well, if you’re gunna wake me up in the middle of the night to fuck,” Mickey grunted, pushing himself up with one hand as he took the baseball cap off his head with the other. “It’s only fair you wear this.”

Ian snorted.

“Oh, is that so?”

“Come here, coach.”

Ian smiled like an idiot, but obeyed at once, lifting his head up from off the pillow just enough so that Mickey could slide the still-warm cap over his head.

“So?” Ian felt only a little ridiculous, but that disappeared entirely and was replaced with a rising warmth in his chest as Mickey’s mouth dropped open the smallest bit, and that looked returned to his face at once: desire and hunger and love, and Ian didn’t have to imagine what he was feeling – he knew from experience.

“If we had had a coach that looked like you,” Mickey breathed, the heat against Ian’s thighs only rising. “I would never have left Little League.”

Mickey dropped his head suddenly without warning, causing Ian to suck in a breath as their mouths came together – surprise mingled with adoration – and he trailed his hands along Mickey’s bare back in return, feeling the softness of him as he dragged them up over his shoulders and the back of his neck before intertwining his fingers into that hair he had been wanting so desperately to touch for hours now. Ian tightened his fists, grabbing a handful and forcing Mickey’s head back so he could look at him.

“Get on your fuckin’ back,” he panted, and fuck, he was ready as he’d ever be.

Mickey pushed himself up immediately, flopping over onto his back beside him, causing the bed to shake and Ian’s breath to quicken as he sat up onto his knees and shuffled himself down between Mickey’s thighs where he fucking belonged.

“That really is some fuckin’ hat,” Mickey sighed, reaching down absently to grab a hold of himself and massage the precum that was beginning to leak its way out down and over his veins, causing Ian’s own dick to twitch and his teeth to bite hard into his lip.

“Don’t I know it.” Ian reached a hand out for the lube, but not before Mickey grabbed it, stopping him abruptly.

“You sure you don’t want to bottom again?” he asked, but it was filled with nothing more than facetiousness and joking; they both knew exactly what they wanted – what they were made for.

“Fuck off.” Ian tore his hand from Mickey’s grasp; grabbing the tube, he squeezed a small dollop of what was left into his hands and reached down, hoisting Mickey’s legs up the smallest bit. “You don’t want me to do this?” he teased, his voice breathy as he reached his fingers out and pressed them against Mickey’s asshole, causing a small moan to escape his tattooed chest; so Ian pressed harder, rubbed his thumb up along his perineum and back down. “You don’t like that?”

“Fuck off, Ian,” Mickey panted, one hand tightening on his dick as his eyes closed, causing more precum to drip its way out as his other hand grasped the bed sheets, and Ian smiled to himself; he wanted to keep teasing him, but he didn’t think he would be able to stand it himself – he hadn’t fucked Mickey in what seemed like an eternity, and the need was clawing its way throughout his entire being just as much as it was his cock.

“Breathe,” Ian said, mocking the way in which Mickey had said that same word to him earlier in the night, and Mickey grinned at him knowingly before his head fell back against the pillow as Ian slowly pressed his way in, guiding himself carefully, inch by precious inch.

“Jesus Christ,” Mickey cried, as Ian finally filled him, and that all-too-familiar squeeze returned suddenly, gripping its way around Ian like a fucking vice, and even though it _had_ only been a couple days, fuck, Ian had _missed_ this – had missed the feel of Mickey wrapped around him like a gift, and shit, he wasn’t going to last long.

“I’m gunna fuckin’ cum in a second Mick,” Ian panted in a half-laugh, leaning forward suddenly so he could wrap an arm around Mickey’s waist and pull him up against his own body.

“Really?” Mickey almost laughed, too, but he was too far invested now to do anything more than let Ian hold him – let Ian slide forward into him once, twice, three times, as that feeling of combustion began to grow in his balls and his stomach.

“Shit, Mick.”

“Breathe,” Mickey joked, but a small moan escaped his lips at the same time, which only caused Ian to tighten his grip, to whimper – caused that feeling to increase exponentially.

“Fuck you.” Ian grunted then, his mouth going automatically onto Mickey’s neck, biting into it softly to try and keep himself together for just a little while longer as he thrust faster, deeper, feeling Mickey’s heartbeat in the vein beneath his lips – feeling his skin brush softly against his teeth.

“You are fucking me.” Mickey’s wet hand left his dick suddenly and grabbed tightly onto Ian’s ass, squeezing it harshly as he pulled him apart the smallest bit, sending a shockwave of something throughout Ian’s belly that sent him all the way over the edge and then some.

“Oh Jesus Christ,” Ian whined, biting reactively into Mickey’s neck harder than he meant to, causing Mickey to yell a little and grab onto Ian’s face, shoving his head up and away from him at once so that Ian was staring down into angry blue eyes then as he came, mouth open, his forehead pressing hard against Mickey’s as his hips pressed forward, and Ian was sure his balls emptied entirely as convulsions racked him – made his thighs quiver and tighten.

“I’m fuckin’ bleeding,” Mickey huffed suddenly, causing Ian to come back down to earth quicker than he had wanted to, and he pushed himself up between heavy breaths in return, slipping himself out.

“What?” He glanced down to Mickey’s neck, and sure enough, there were tiny droplets of blood where Ian’s teeth had actually broken the skin. Ian felt his face redden. “Oh shit, Mickey…”

Mickey tapped a finger to his neck, winced, and although he looked seriously put out and pissed, the corner of his mouth still managed to pull up a little, which made Ian’s hammering heart slow.

“Are you fuckin’ kidding me, Gallagher?” Mickey barked, but wrapped an arm back around Ian’s waist, pulling his body back down against him and forcing Ian’s face to come so close to his own that Ian could smell the toothpaste and annoyance on his breath.

“I’m sorry,” Ian chuckled, and tried to be serious, but he failed miserably.

“You better make me cum more than I’ve ever cum in my entire fucking life, I swear.”

Ian felt his breath tremble at that, felt his face harden as his softening cock twitched, and he took that as a challenge.

~

Ian sat up at once, adjusting that cap that somehow made him look like the hottest fucking person Mickey had ever seen – like all those men on ESPN he used to admire at the Alibi as a kid, when nobody was paying too much attention; the deep, rich shade of blue made the small orange wisps of Ian’s hair that managed to escape the edges stand out like saturated Technicolour – made his freckles even more prominent – and Mickey no longer felt the throbbing wound at his neck, but the throbbing blood in is cock as Ian shouldered himself down between his thighs and began lapping up whatever cum had worked its way out of him, tonguing his asshole in a way that made Mickey want to close his eyes, but he didn’t – he wanted to watch more.

Mickey punched absently at the pillow tucked firmly under his head, adjusting it so he was propped up enough that he could look at Ian while he licked at him – while he bit gently at his thighs, which made Mickey eye him cautiously; and when Ian used a little too much pressure, he winced again – hissed through his teeth – causing Ian to glance at him knowingly before smiling; Mickey tensed his muscles – prepared himself for more biting – but apparently Ian figured that was enough foreplay for the night, because he reached out then and took Mickey’s hard, leaking dick in his hand, directed it straight into his mouth – against his tongue – and went to work, an errant finger slipping its way inside him.

And being back where he belonged – on the receiving end of Ian’s love – Mickey _did_ cum more than he ever had in his entire fucking life.

Sunlight was streaming in through the open window above them when Mickey finally awoke in the morning; he could hear the sounds of shitty cars and eager voices drifting in through the screen – the sounds of life on the South Side in early summer – and he closed his eyes once more, letting a new and unknown feeling of contentedness drift through him as he listened to the echoes of home before they had to leave it all behind…

His phone rang suddenly from the table beside him, startling him from his reverie; Mickey reached for it immediately, unplugging it and answering it in a single go so as not to wake Ian, who was still dead to the world beside him, orange hair a curly mess from a restless sleep and a sweaty hat.

“Yea?” he whispered, slightly annoyed as he crawled quietly out of bed and tiptoed his way out into the hall before closing the door behind him.

“Good morning to you, too,” Colin snorted, and took a sip of something which Mickey knew instinctively was coffee, which just made his own cravings for a mug and a cigarette grow.

“Whatever, it’s early.” Mickey padded down the stairs to the kitchen completely naked, the cooler air of the first floor causing his flesh to ripple as he slid a smoke from the pack he had left on the dining table. “What time you comin’?”

A part of him didn’t want Colin to come at all – he knew Colin’s coming meant they were one step closer to saying goodbye, and even after an entire night of dreaming about it, he still wasn’t ready.

“An hour or two; have a meeting with Sirko tonight about guns and other goods, have to get some shit together.”

_Other goods_. Mickey knew he meant people.

“Back to the Fairy Tale?” he asked, glancing absently up the stairs to where Ian slept before strolling into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee.

“Nah, Russian whores.”

“Speaking of…” Mickey lit his cigarette, took a deep drag before letting the smoke escape. “What happened with Svetlana?”

“Who?”

“The Russian whore from the other night, who tried to…”

“Oh yea,” Colin cut him off, and Mickey was thankful he didn’t have to explain more. “She settled for two-hundred K and an exit strategy.”

“Where’d she go?” Mickey didn’t know why he asked, he didn’t care.

“Fuck if I know, California or something.”

“Of course.” Mickey flipped on the coffee maker before leaning back against the counter, and he stared out into the room for a moment, remembering the scene that had been laid out before him only a few nights before; he eyed the front door Terry had come through; the chair he had been strapped to; the floor where he had been certain Ian had died…

_Ian_.

“Hey can you do me a favour?” Mickey asked suddenly, remembering the errant thought he had had at three-thirty in the morning, when he had cum down Ian’s throat in the cool night breeze, a feeling of peace flowing through him then as Ian had shifted himself over top of him once more, intertwining their hands above his head so he could kiss him, and lull him into dreaming…

~

Ian awoke to the smell of coffee, the sounds of home, and an empty space in the bed beside him; he reached out absently to touch the sheets – to feel the temperature of them to know just how long Mickey had been gone for – before he closed his eyes to the brilliant sunlight that streamed its way in through the window and listened, letting the echoes of South Side fill him briefly before they had to leave it all behind.

“Mornin’ sleepy face,” Mickey said suddenly, and Ian reopened his eyes, just as Mickey came quietly through the door – completely naked and soft in the golden rays – a steaming cup of coffee in his hand. “Hope you slept better than I did.”

Ian gazed over every cell of him – from head to toe – and smiled, sitting up against the headboard so he could take the full mug Mickey handed him.

“Bad night was it?” he asked, jested, and burnt his tongue on an overeager sip of coffee.

“Was unceremoniously woken up at three in the fuckin’ mornin’,” Mickey huffed, turning back towards their dresser. “Didn’t sleep much after that.”

Ian was quiet for a moment, simply watching the way Mickey’s muscles shifted in the light as he pulled out a folded pair of underwear, then a faded pair of light-blue jeans.

“Well.” Ian set the mug down and climbed out of bed, striding casually over to where Mickey stood and sliding his hands slowly around his waist, letting his fingers rest in the soft hair below his navel. “I’ll make sure that it never happens again, then…”

“Wait wait,” Mickey chuckled, turning to face him so he was fully engulfed by Ian’s embrace, and a smile spread across his face that was nothing but teeth. “I didn’t say it never had to happen again…”

“Well I just assumed by your tone…”

“You assume too much, Gallagher.”

“Oh do I?” Ian leaned down then, cutting off a word of protest from Mickey’s lips as he captured them with his own; he tasted Mickey’s morning cigarette on his burning tongue, and he could have gone for round three right then and there, but Mickey laughed against his mouth instead and broke free.

“I have to shower,” he sighed, and rubbed at his temple before glancing away; Ian knew he was trying really hard to refocus his attention on more pressing matters. “Colin will be here in an hour or so.”

Ian nodded, their small little bubble bursting suddenly as he remembered all at once that they had to be gone soon, and that empty feeling of leaving entered into his chest yet again before he suppressed it the best he could, reaching down to steal the pair of navy boxers from Mickey’s hands.

“Thanks,” he spat, biting at Mickey’s bottom lip to keep from laughing as he slid them on, and Mickey gave him that look of pure, unadulterated annoyance that Ian loved so goddamn much.

“You’re such a dick.”

“But I’m _your_ dick.”

“Yea,” Mickey huffed, reopening the drawer to grab another pair of boxers as he side-eyed Ian with a look that was no longer annoyance, but affection. “Yea, you are.”

Colin came through the door less than an hour later, as Mickey sat at the dining table – freshly showered and dressed – smelling like home and all the things Ian took comfort in as he nursed his second cup of cooling coffee. Ian sat across from him, his eyes settling occasionally on the top of Mickey’ head as both of them sat reveling in the quietness of their home, listening to each other breathe as they waited for their final goodbye.

Mickey cleared his throat before standing, and Ian saw the look that crossed over his face – he imagined it was the same one that had crossed over his own when he had faced Lip the night before in their living room on South Wallace.

Not euphoria this time.

Heartbreak.

“Hey,” Mickey greeted, and even his tone was slightly more somber.

“Colin.” Ian simply nodded at the eldest Milkovich, standing from his place at the table out of respect and smiling the best he could.

“Here.” Colin came forward at once, ignoring the formalities and greetings like Milkoviches did best, leaving the three bodyguards that trailed him to stand awkwardly on the front porch as he stepped into the room, handing both Ian and Mickey a small envelope each.

Despite his straight-to-business demeanor, Ian could tell by the way Colin wouldn’t look at his brother that he was dreading this farewell more than Mickey actually was, and Ian could understand why; Colin was the head of that little, tight-knit, unbelievably conspicuous family – that little family that was everything to each of them, despite how little they actually said to each other to confirm it.

Glancing down at the envelope in his hands, Ian traced the edge of it with his finger before opening the top flap and peering inside; there was a small pile of paper and plastic sitting neatly at the bottom, so Ian reached in and gently pulled it all out; there was a credit card, a passport, and a birth certificate, and it was weird, Ian thought, to see his real picture on the passport, surrounded by a fake name and birth-date; but it also made his inner penchant for chaos thrum a little bit with excitement.

“Fucking _Curtis_!?” he spat suddenly, reading the name Mickey had obviously chosen for his _official_ papers.

Mickey actually had the audacity to laugh.

“Like it?”

Ian flipped him the bird before reading the rest of it.

“Curtis _Murphy_.” Ian rolled his eyes, looking back at Mickey with as much disdain as he could muster. “Did you have to go with the most Irish name you could think of?”

“I was gunna go with Spikey…”

“Oh fuck off…”

“Hey, it’s better than mine,” Mickey replied, biting off another laugh and handing Ian his passport, which Ian opened immediately.

“Jason Walters!?” Ian snorted, biting his tongue to keep from bursting. “You are so _not_ a Jason…”

“Oh and you’re a Curtis!?”

Ian handed the passport back.

“I’m more of a Curtis than you are a Jason…”

“Fuck off.” Mickey flipped him the bird before shoving his passport back into the envelope.

“Whatever the fuck your names are,” Colin cut in, sliding into a chair at the table. “They aren’t Ian and Mickey anymore.”

For some reason those words hit Ian suddenly like a slap in the face, and he felt the smile fall away from his lips; he was no longer Ian Gallagher – he was back to being Curtis; he was back to being someone he never thought he would be ever again…

Mickey reached out suddenly and squeezed his hand, causing Ian to break free from his reverie and glance down at his fiancé, now seated at the table beside him.

“I’m fine,” Ian replied, without Mickey even having to ask, and feigned a smile that Mickey probably knew wasn’t genuine.

Mickey smiled up at him, a look of unnecessary apology ebbing into his eyes before he glanced at his brother, and Ian was reminded once again of Lip – of that final moment he needed alone with his best friend, and Ian knew that was his cue to go.

“I’ll let you guys talk,” he said, squeezing Mickey’s hand a little in reassurance before eyeing Colin. “Thank you, Colin,” Ian sighed, and found that he didn’t really have the words, either, as if Colin were his own brother now, too. “For everything, I guess, and…”

“Shut up,” Colin interrupted, the corner of his mouth pulling up as Ian’s brows furrowed. “Milkoviches never have to say it.”

_Milkoviches_. Ian smiled then, genuinely this time, and let the weight of that sentence settle deep into his bones before turning, heading up the stairs to pack.

~

“Did you bring them?” Mickey whispered, once Ian had closed the bedroom door behind him and was out of earshot.

“Yea.” Colin reached inside his inner jacket pocket then, pulling out a small, metal, matte black box before pushing it across the table. “Hope they’re alright. I got the closest to what you asked.”

Mickey picked up the box, feeling the surprising weight of it for a brief moment before he opened the lid, and there on a little black cushion were two rings – 24 karat yellow gold, rounded edges, with a Mickey Milkovich matte finish.

They weren’t ornate or over-the-top – they didn’t scream wealth or class; they were simple, just like he and Ian were, and that would always be enough for both of them, he knew.

“Thanks,” Mickey sniffed, and was a little surprised at the emotions he felt while staring at them, so he closed the tiny lid to keep from looking like a soft bitch any more than he already did.

“Nice bite mark, by the way…”

Mickey felt the heat rise into his face at that – absently remembering the fucking welt on his neck – and he scratched a thumb over his eyebrow in embarrassment, but managed to smile just a little.

“Fuck off.”

“It was a good choice,” Colin put in then, changing the subject completely as he grabbed Mickey’s cup of coffee and sipped at it, his face contorting into a look of disgust at how cold it had become.

Mickey wasn’t sure if Colin meant the rings or Ian – he liked to think maybe he meant both.

“Want a fresh cup?”

“Nah, I’m good.” Colin stood up abruptly then from his place at the table, refastening the button of his jacket. “I have to go.”

Mickey felt the lump that had been laying in wait in his stomach rise suddenly up into his throat, and he wasn’t fucking ready.

“Okay.” He shoved the rings into the back pocket of his jeans before rubbing again at his eyebrow – at his temple this time – forcefully fidgeting to keep himself from fucking crying; crying not just because he was leaving his family behind – the family who had been by his side almost every single day for nearly twenty-six years – but the family he would no longer be able to protect, and despite the love he felt within his chest for the man who sat waiting in their bedroom upstairs – despite every single one of them knowing that he was doing the right thing – he still felt fucking guilty, like he was betraying them all in the worst, most selfish kind of way.

“I know I just said that Milkoviches don’t have to say it,” Colin sighed, clearing his throat before averting his eyes so he could look anywhere but at Mickey. “But don’t do anything stupid, Mick, or I swear to God…”

“Iggy’s the stupid one,” Mickey joked – cutting him off before he could finish – and glanced down at the floor; Colin didn’t need to explain more, because Mickey already knew well the threat that was attached to the end of that sentence.

“Don’t I know it.”

“Listen, I…”

“Stop.” Colin wouldn’t let him speak either, apparently; he just reached a hand out instead, grabbing Mickey by the shoulder and pulling him against his chest in what Mickey thought was maybe the first hug his brother had ever actually given him in his entire, chaotic life. Colin cupped the back of his head then like Ian was prone to do sometimes – as if it were a fragile little gift like the rings in his pocket – and Mickey suddenly felt so small and so vulnerable there in his brother’s arms that his own lifted instinctively – almost against his will – wrapping their way around Colin’s waist as he felt actual fucking tears burning behind his eyes.

“Don’t get fuckin’ killed, alright?” Mickey spat finally, pushing himself away with a loud sniff, and that was enough of the pussy bullshit. 

“Nobody kills a Milkovich,” Colin admitted, the affection in his face disappearing at once as it hardened once more, and Mickey smiled at the seeing of it.

“Except you, right?” 

“Yea, except me.”

Mickey thought suddenly of their father, and was thankful he wasn’t there as he swallowed the lump that was still clawing its way upwards; walking towards the front door, Mickey finally lifted his eyes to gaze at his brother as he opened it, and Colin stopped in the threshold, pausing for just a moment to look down at him.

“Tomorrow, then?” Mickey asked, and felt that fucking lump quiver – waiver just a little – threatening to break into an actual sob.

“Yea. I’ll have a car dropped off in the morning and you’re on your way.”

They had to drive, Mickey knew; they couldn’t risk going to the airport.

“Is it at least a nice fuckin’ car?” Mickey eyed their old, black beater parked beside the curb, trying to lighten the mood as he missed his fucking Audi more than usual. “Nicer than that piece of shit?”

“It’ll get you from A to B.”

“How fast?”

Colin smiled, a huff of air escaping his nose in amusement.

“Mickey fuckin’ Milkovich,” he said then – like it was some sort of declaration of pride – and he reached a hand out once more, squeezing Mickey’s shoulder as he eyed him for just a second longer before turning and walking down the front steps without saying another word.

Mickey just stood there – watching as his brother climbed into the back of his black Range Rover and disappeared from sight – and he wasn’t altogether sure just how much time had passed before he felt the weight of everything that was now on his shoulders and his shoulders alone sink down onto him; he had no more help – he had no more backup; he had to get both he and Ian out safely – had to get them both settled in a far, distant home; and he had to do it all as someone new.

But he didn’t have time to think about that now; first things first…

~

Ian still had hardly any possessions to his name – no belongings whatsoever except the exact same old clothes, books, laptop, and phone he had left The Fairy Tale with; the only three extra things he had now were another cell phone, a really expensive suit, and a fiancé.

As if on cue, that fiancé opened the bedroom door now and came striding in as Ian folded a sweatshirt, which he laid gently into his sad, empty suitcase before eyeing him; Ian could see the redness in Mickey’s eyes, and he noticed immediately the way in which Mickey wouldn’t really meet his gaze.

“You okay?” Ian inquired, quietly – knowing full well that he wasn’t – and walked over to him, draping his arms over Mickey’s neck, and Ian realized absently that neither of them worried anymore about being too soft with each other; it’s just what love was, and it was natural now – it was easy.

“I’m good.”

Ian knew Mickey was lying – just like he always did when he was trying to act tougher than he felt in the moment – but he allowed Ian to hold him for another moment before stepping out of his grasp.

“I have something for you,” Mickey declared suddenly, raising an eyebrow as a small, wry smile finally pulled up the corner of his mouth as something clearly lightened his mood and distracted him from Colin’s leaving.

“Something big?” Ian joked, and eyed Mickey’s dick, trying his best to keep that mood from shifting in the wrong direction.

“Jesus, you’re fuckin’ impossible sometimes…”

“I know.”

“Here.” Mickey reached into his back pocket then, producing a small, matte black box, and Ian felt his heart nearly break through his fucking ribcage as Mickey set it gently into the palm of his hand. “You umm…” Mickey started, but trailed off, glancing away out the window, and Ian also felt his breath hitch in his throat as he suppressed a smile.

_Was Mickey actually going to make a fucking speech_!?

Ian wanted to stop him – to remind him that he was a Milkovich and he didn’t have to say it; but Ian was still entirely a Gallagher; more than that – despite the papers in the envelope in his suitcase – he was also still entirely _Ian_.

So he pried.

“I what?” he asked, holding the box firm, but he didn’t make a move to open it – not yet.

Mickey glanced back in his direction at the sound of his voice, his blue eyes going soft as he gazed up at him, but they still held that same intensity that was always there when Mickey looked at him, and after all this time it still set Ian’s chest ablaze – made his palm sweat a little against the box.

“You fuckin’ make me better, okay?” Mickey spat, his hands going onto his hips. “And I umm…” He stopped again, and although Ian wanted to laugh a little at just how innocent it was – wanted to open his mouth and reach inside to pry the words out himself – a bigger part of him was trying really hard not to either cry, or tear his clothes off.

“You can do it,” he jested, settling on a reassuring smile that made Mickey grin shyly in return.

“Fuck off…”

“Mmm, how romantic. Is that it?”

“No.”

“I’m waiting.”

“Fine, fuck.” Mickey raised a hand in the air, waving it around haphazardly as he took a deep breath, stared at the floor, and there was barely a space between any of the words as he said, “You fuckin’ make me better, and even though Milkoviches don’t have to say it, you make me _want_ to say it, Ian, and say things I never thought I _would_ say. I know we’ve kinda already settled on it so I don’t really have to ask again, but you make me happy, I guess, and one of the things I never thought I’d be able to say in this life was that I was free, but since you got into my car that first night Ian, what you and I have has made me free, and…”

“Come here,” Ian hissed, cutting him off as he grabbed his waist and swallowed whatever else Mickey could possibly say as he kissed him, deeply, his tongue finding its way between his teeth at once.

Besides the screaming match the night Mickey had left him, Ian had never actually heard Mickey say so many words in a single go, and it was so fucking beautiful that Ian was surprised those words had even left the lips of hardened felon Mickey Milkovich in the first place, and he loved him for it – loved him more than anything.

Ian held on for a solid minute, tasting Mickey’s tongue with his own – feeling its softness, its wetness within his mouth – and everything began to shift within him – his happiness turning quickly to need – until he remembered the small, almost nonexistent weight of the box in his hand, and he pulled away.

“Is this what I think it is?” he asked, looking down into Mickey’s eyes as Mickey’s breath came hot and fast against his clavicle.

“Just fuckin’ open it.”

Ian grinned, placing a kiss to the tip of Mickey’s nose before he tore himself from his grasp and stepped towards the window so he could open the box in better light.

They were simple and inconspicuous; they weren’t fancy or over-the-top; they were the type of rings that would never draw too much attention; they were the type of rings that would come together happily and easily when one hand reached absently out for the other…

Ian thought absently that the rings were them.

“They okay?” Mickey asked suddenly, his voice a little unsure as he came to stand beside him in the sunlight. “I can get new ones if they’re not…”

“Shut the fuck up, Mick.” Ian didn’t look at him, he just stared down into that box, and for a moment, he was nothing more than a boy in South Side – a boy that had dreams of being in love with another boy who made his heart flutter with stupid, beautiful words; and for that single second, nothing at all had changed – Ian was fifteen again, the entire world laid out before him, and he was going to make it, one way or the other.

Ian reached down and grabbed the ring he knew was his – the one that was slightly smaller – and felt the cool weight of it before slipping it onto his finger; and for some reason he didn’t think he’d ever be able to fully understand, Ian felt like it had always been there.

“Soft bitch,” Mickey huffed, but reached out then, taking the other ring and sliding it down over his own knuckles so it sat right there over the black U that was inked into his skin, and just like that, they were together – they were together in a way the entire world could look at and see – and Ian knew before his next breath even escaped his lips that it was about to happen for the second time that day.

“Take your pants off,” he hissed, his eyes never leaving that matte gold band. “Seriously. Now.”

Mickey didn’t say anything, he just did it without question, and through his peripherals Ian could see that he was hard before his faded jeans even hit the floor.

Finally, Ian turned, meeting those indescribable baby blues once more as he grabbed at Mickey’s waist, pulling him back tightly against him so he could kiss him yet again, and he was done wasting time. Ian closed his eyes, focusing on nothing more than sucking at Mickey’s tongue before pushing him blindly backwards towards the dresser, both of them jolting to a sudden stop as Mickey’s ass pressed up against it, causing the lamp on top to nearly tip off the edge and the tiny Little League picture that leaned against it to slip silently off.

“Here?” Mickey smiled against his lips, reaching a hand down to grip the handle of a drawer behind him.

“Here.” Ian tossed the empty box onto the bed before grabbing onto Mickey’s ass, pulling it harshly and turning him around with enough force that Mickey actually moaned a little as he braced himself on the wooden surface, white knuckles and tendons showing; and as soon as he had Mickey’s shirt off, Ian let his left hand slide its way slowly down his bare left arm, their hands eventually coming together and intertwining like they always did, warm gold clinking quietly against warm gold.

They somehow ended up on the floor, with sweaty backs pressed against the old hardwood at the end of their bed, pale chests heaving in the returning quiet as the high-noon sun disappeared slowly behind a wall of clouds that threatened rain, and maybe even a storm.

Ian listened as the wind picked up, hissing its way loudly through the still-open window, causing the Little League picture to drift past his outstretched legs as he stared at the ceiling.

“So when do we leave?” he asked finally, turning his head slightly to glance at Mickey, who was right beside him, eyes cast upwards into nothingness.

“Tomorrow morning.”

“Hmm.” Ian looked back up, felt that feeling reappear in his chest.

“Anything in particular you wanna do today?” Mickey queried, his voice suddenly soft but optimistic, which made Ian smile despite himself.

“See my family,” he replied, but knew it was impossible; there was nobody there to protect him – to protect _them_.

Mickey didn’t say anything for a moment; he just breathed, the air coming softly through his nose as his breath finally began to slow, and Ian closed his eyes in return, holding his own breath for a fraction of a second so that he could synchronize his inhales – exhales – up with Mickey’s, and let it calm him.

“Would you settle for me instead?” Mickey asked suddenly, causing Ian’s eyes to flutter back open, and he glanced at him, so vulnerable there in the muted light of a cloudy afternoon.

Ian didn’t know when they had gotten so soft, but he thought somewhere along the road, it had kind of just happened all at once; there had been no warnings or red flags – no signs that said: _stop, you’re about to become the kindest version of yourself with the one person who makes you feel like you’re allowed to be_ – and honestly, Ian didn’t altogether care.

“I wouldn’t ever use the word _settle_ when it comes to you, Mick.” Ian shifted onto his side then so he could face him, the skin at his hip scraping awkwardly against the floor as he did so, but Ian didn’t really give a fuck about that, either. “I’ve already told you,” he sighed. “I think _you’re_ the one that’s settling.”

A small huff of air escaped Mickey’s nose at that.

“Settling would have been dropping you off at that fuckin’ apartment back in April and leaving you there like I was supposed to.”

“Oh yea?” Ian reached a hand out and fingered the bruise forming on Mickey’s neck that was the same size and shape as his mouth during orgasm. “How’s that?”

“Because I’d have been settling for what I thought I deserved.”

Ian felt his face soften.

“So you’re saying I’m what you deserve?”

“I’m saying that you’re better than what I deserve.”

“Jesus,” Ian scoffed, but smiled, leaning forward so he could kiss Mickey once, twice, before rubbing a thumb along his cheekbone. “We need to go shoot something or some shit. We’ve gotten fuckin’ soft…”

“Yea, I know,” Mickey grunted, pushing himself abruptly up from off the floor and grabbing their picture as he went, leaning it gently back against the lamp as he strolled over to the dresser.

Ian had to suppress a smile then as he watched Mickey absently grab his Glock from the top drawer and chamber a round, as if checking to see – after all their softness – that he actually still knew how; he did of course, and just like that, he was once again the hottest, hardest man Ian had ever seen – the man who sped carelessly down the freeway with that gun in his hand; the man he had fallen in love with – and the way his ring glinted in the muffled light – clanking quietly against the steel – made Ian’s insides tighten.

“Seriously,” he exclaimed finally, allowing that smile to escape his lips as he made his mind up. “Let’s go shoot something.”

“Actually?” Mickey eyed him, one corner of his mouth pulling up as he turned the gun over in his hand, considering it.

“Yea, that’s what I wanna do.” It wasn’t _just_ that, really – not that specifically, at least; Ian simply wanted to feel like that careless teenager in South Side again, for just a little while longer. “Then,” he added, “I wanna sit with you and watch shitty movies on the TV as we eat cold pizza.”

“Oh is that all?” Mickey asked, and the sarcasm – as always – wasn’t lost on Ian.

“No, ‘cause then I’m gunna fuck you a few more times in our house before we have to leave it.”

Mickey set the gun back down at that, raising an errant eyebrow as he glanced absently down to his thighs – to the cum that was drying between them.

“I have to have another shower first.”

Ian got up at once, just like a giddy teenager with the idea of misbehaving on his mind.

“Hang on,” he spat, grabbing his phone off the table – there was something he needed to do first.

The phone rang, and rang, and when Lip didn’t answer, Ian was a little bit relieved – he didn’t want to have to try and explain himself, not right now. The answering machine beeped, and Ian looked right at Mickey.

“Hey Lip, it’s me…everything is good, I just wanted to tell you that uhh…I kinda asked Mickey to marry me…so…yea. Just thought you should know first, because I know you’ll understand it. I miss you guys already...”

Ian cleared the sadness and happiness that mingled together in his throat before promptly hanging up, and – setting his phone on the bed beside the little, black box – he glanced back at Mickey, who was watching him with narrowed eyes.

“Understand what?” he asked, voice curious, but Ian knew that deep down, Mickey already knew the answer – Mickey already knew that he made Ian better, and that that was enough reason to marry anyone; only an idiot couldn’t understand that – couldn’t _see_ it – and an idiot Lip was not.

“Come on,” Ian grinned, ignoring him completely as he pulled his socks off and threw them directly in Mickey’s face as he strolled casually into the bathroom. “Before it fuckin’ rains!”

Ian had no idea where they were going, but Mickey did, and that was all he needed to know; so he stared out the window – watching South Side pass by around him in blurry, darkening skies – and took it all in.

Besides their unknown destination, Ian also didn’t know when he’d be able to drive or walk these grey streets again, or when he’d be able to look out the windshield once more and see Chicago’s skyline laid out before him like static on a screen; but he only felt the pang of sadness for a moment before he turned in his seat then to glance at Mickey, and that pang evaporated almost instantly, disappearing in a cloud of smoke as Ian realized that for now, he didn’t altogether care; that was apparently what Mickey did to him – he made him forget his problems, and made everything seem a little bit more…hopeful.

They would go; and when they came back, they would be better people, and that was something, wasn’t it?

That was everything.

“Are we going to the Stacks?” Ian asked suddenly, recognizing the tall, graffiti’d, cement pillars that rose up on the shores of Lake Michigan in the distance that were just as abandoned and worn down as they had been when he and Lip would go there as kids to spray-paint the rounded walls before throwing rocks into the churning waves of a November squall.

“Yea, man.” Mickey rubbed a thumb absently – softly – over the ring on Ian’s finger as Ian eyed the Glocks on the floorboards between his feet, and the fact that they were so contradictory – in so many fucking ways – made Ian smile 

“How long ‘til the cops come?” he asked, nudging one of the guns with the toe of his shoe; there weren’t any silencers.

“I give it a half hour.”

“Jesus, that’s being generous.”

Mickey eyed him, the corner of his mouth pulling up.

“This is South Side. Nobody gives a shit.”

Ian snorted.

“Fair enough.”

Ian sat on a cracked cement half-wall that separated the dirt lot from Lake Michigan, watching as Mickey reached into the trunk of the car and pulled out a garbage bag full of empty bottles he had collected from their recycling; after his visit with the Milkovich siblings – and Mickey’s penchant for sucking back a cold one – there were enough empties there for a good bit of fun.

“Gunna rain soon,” Ian observed, glancing at the sky as it roiled, turning the ring absently around on his finger, which he already knew was going to become a bit of a habit.

“I know,” Mickey replied, eyeing the clouds before setting the bag down at Ian’s feet with the clinking sound of glass. “That’s why I brought this.” Mickey reached down into the bag then and pulled out what Ian assumed from nothing more than the sight of it was a fucking Uzi submachine gun.

“Jesus Mick!” Ian stood up, stepping away from it automatically. “What the fuck is that for!?”

“For speeding up the process.” Mickey shrugged like it was no big deal and popped the cigarette that was dangling deep between his fingers into his mouth, smoke curling upwards wildly in the cooling air as he reached back in the bag, pulled out a clip, and slid it into place.

Ian thought he looked like fucking Al Capone. 

“Where the _fuck_ did you even get that!?”

“I keep it under the bed.”

Ian rolled his eyes.

“I change my mind,” he spat, glancing at the Uzi as Mickey looked it over. “Cops will be here in less than fifteen.”

“Better make this quick, then.” Mickey reached into the back of his jeans, slipping out one of the Glocks before handing it to Ian. “Show me what ya got, Army.”

Ian eyed him – felt the weight of the gun in his hands as he smiled– and stole the smoke from Mickey’s lips before sliding it between his own and taking a long, deep drag; he grabbed a beer bottle from the bag, strolled over to the cement stack, and set it up on a piece of wall that was jutting outwards from the old weight of the structure.

“We gunna make bets?” Mickey called to him, lipping another cigarette from his crinkled pack.

“Only if you’re okay with losing all your money.”

Mickey raised his eyebrows.

“Cocky motherfucker.”

“You’ve never seen me shoot, Milko…” Ian stopped for a second, bringing himself up short as he remembered suddenly the expert way in which he had actually killed two people, and he glanced away towards the grey water at the memory.

No, Mickey may not have seen it happen, but he saw the aftermath, and that was enough.

“A million,” Mickey said suddenly, trying to bring Ian back to him, and it worked; Ian shot him a look with furrowed brows.

“What?”

“A million bucks.” Mickey shrugged, took a drag, let the cigarette dangle from his mouth. “If you hit more than me, I’ll give you a million bucks.”

Ian felt himself swallow – felt heat rise up his chest.

“You fuckin’ wouldn’t…”

“Oh, I fuckin’ would.” Mickey stood up then, taking one more hard inhale before tossing the smoke down into the dirt. “A Milkovich always keeps his promise, remember?” Mickey pulled his own Glock out from his belt then, barely even aiming it before pulling the trigger within a half-second, and the bottle Ian had just set up exploded into a million fucking pieces.

Ian felt himself smile as the reverberation echoed out across the water.

“And if _you_ hit more?” he asked, rubbing absently at his jaw as he considered just how serious Mickey actually was; but Mickey didn’t look at him or say anything, he just smiled at the empty spot where the bottle used to be – obviously impressed with himself, but also, Ian thought, maybe working up the courage to say something. “Mickey?” he prodded again, causing Mickey to eventually glance in his direction.

“Hmm?”

“You heard me.” Ian felt nervous all of a sudden.

“What do I get if I win?” Mickey looked away towards the water, dragged a hand over the back of his neck before saying, “Then you take my name,” so quietly that Ian barely heard it.

Ian blinked once, twice, his weight falling hard onto the cement barrier as he leaned back against it.

“You mean…”

“Milkovich.” Mickey eyed him then, and the look was one of complete seriousness. “I want you to be Milkovich.”

Ian hadn’t even contemplated this yet – hadn’t even had the _time_ to contemplate the changing of surnames that sometimes comes with marriage. Did he even _want_ to change his name – to not _technically_ be a Gallagher anymore? Would he be okay with being a motherfucking _Milkovich_ if he did?

_Fuck it_ , he thought after a moment, swatting away the errant thoughts that raced suddenly through his mind like flies; it wasn’t something he was going to have to decide on right now, despite what he said to Mickey, and he only felt a little bit bad about it; if Mickey _did_ win and Ian changed his mind later, he’d just have to deal with the consequences then.

“I’ll win anyways,” he spat, grabbing for another bottle. “But sure Mickey, if you win, I’ll be a Milkovich.”

Mickey was leaning carelessly against the blockade, sipping absently on a beer he had brought as rain began to sprinkle down upon them. Ian had hit nine bottles – just like Mickey had – and now there were only two left standing between himself and either a million dollars, or the possibility of yet another new name.

Ian aimed at that bottle now, planting his feet firmly onto the ground, barely closing one eye so the sight and that goddam brown glass came startlingly into focus, just like he had learned all those years before.

“Hurry the fuck up,” Mickey spat, causing Ian to waiver a little off centre.

“Shut your fuckin’ pie hole, then.” Ian refocused, breathed, and pulled the trigger. The bottle blew up entirely, and he smiled arrogantly to himself. “So what do we do if it’s a tie?”

Mickey snorted, tilting the beer back to chug the whole thing in a single go before strolling across the lot to place it onto the little ledge that was now completely covered in sand-like glass.

“All or nothing?” he answered, sliding his Glock out one more time.

Ian felt his forehead crease as he sat back down.

“Whatta you mean?”

“I mean you get the million and I get to call you Mr. Milkovich.” Mickey looked him dead in the eye then, and Ian knew that was Mickey’s was of letting him know he had absolutely no hesitations whatsoever. “Win win, y’know?”

Ian felt his stomach tighten a little; he still didn’t know if he wanted to _be_ Mr. Milkovich, but how the fuck was he supposed to tell Mickey that, of all people?

“Let’s go with nothing,” he said instead, but still saw the way in which Mickey’s face fell a little, and his heart ached because of it. “We tie, all bets are off.”

“Sure thing.” Mickey sniffed then in the silence and the rain – his black hair sinking under the dampness that clung to it – and Ian could hear the small, almost imperceptible hint of sadness – maybe even betrayal – in those words, like it hurt Mickey to think that maybe Ian didn’t want to _be_ a Milkovich; but Ian knew that if he wasn’t such a coward at the moment – if he took the time to actually explain himself – Mickey would probably be able to understand where he was coming from, because if the roles were reversed, Ian was almost positive that Mickey would be fighting tooth and nail to keep the name that he thought defined him.

At least, he thought he would be...

Rain started to fall harder, causing Ian to fold his arms over his chest as he watched Mickey intently, his Timberland boots standing firmly on the line they had kicked into the dirt, his head tilting the smallest bit as he aimed.

“Hope you fuck this up,” Ian spat, just as Mickey’s finger tightened on the trigger, and Mickey let go, flipping him the bird, which at least made Ian feel the smallest bit better.

“Shut up, Gallagher.”

Ian did shut up – despite the ridiculousness of it all, he wanted it to be fair, at least.

Mickey steadied himself, retrained his eyes, found his centre of gravity, and pulled the trigger, and beyond the echo of the blast that worked its way out around them, nothing happened – the bottle didn’t move, and Ian felt himself smile.

“Holy fuck!” he exclaimed, nearly falling over as he jumped up at once. “Did you fucking _miss_!?” Ian wasn’t exactly sure what he was feeling, but it had to be close to euphoria.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Mickey spat, the annoyance in his voice clear as day as he simply stared ahead at the completely intact bottle. “I want a redo,” he added suddenly, “because of the rain…”

“No fuckin’ way!” Ian snorted, and was actually bouncing around a little like a kid on Christmas morning. “That wasn’t part of the deal!”

“Fuuuuck.”

Ian laughed, but stepped over to where Mickey stood anyways, grabbing his face and kissing him through the widest smile his face could possibly muster – a smile that actually somehow increased when Mickey’s grumpy face barely moved.

“You owe me a million fuckin’ dollars!” Ian sighed against his lips, and chuckled, his breath coming back hot into his face. “And a Milkovich always keeps his promise!”

“Yea yea.” Mickey rolled his eyes, but let Ian kiss him there in the falling rain. “You’ll get your fuckin’ money.”

Ian always knew Mickey _would_ keep his word, but suddenly the prospect of having that much money – of being able to _give_ that much money – was actually a real thing, and holy fuck he was on cloud nine for the briefest of moments.

“Fuck Mickey, are you actually giving me a million dollars?” he asked, suddenly a little unsure, his emotions flipping all over the place because that would never actually happen, right? “You don’t have to, we can keep it together and…”

“Shut up,” Mickey hissed, but grinned finally as he reached down, picking the Uzi up from off the ground. “I’ll give you the fuckin’ money when it’s safe, and you can give it to your family or buy me a new Audi or whatever…”

“Pff, buy _you_ a new Audi? I don’t think so.” Ian grabbed the Uzi haphazardly from Mickey’s hands then, so fucking giddy and full of love and excitement at the chaos and danger he now held that his heart raced.

“Easy,” Mickey warned, and came up behind him, reaching around to make sure he was holding it properly – aiming it properly – before stepping back out of the way. “Fuckin’ let ‘er rip, and then…” Mickey stopped, coming back up beside Ian for a second and looking at him with mischievous eyes.

“And then what?”

“And then fuckin’ run.”

Ian smiled, laughed, and everything – despite the rain – was perfect.

~

Ian let a volley fly, a torrent of casings flying out onto the ground around him like the droplets that fell from the sky as the cement at the side of one of the stacks chipped away into dust and powder at the sudden impact of bullets; it was so fucking loud that Mickey _almost_ had to cover his ears and turn away, but Ian looked way too hot, standing there like a proper gangster – that same, familiar grin returning to his face that had been there the night he had climbed into Mickey’s car – and Mickey smiled to himself for just a moment at the sight, before he heard the distant sound of sirens, echoing their way around South Side.

Ian stopped suddenly and obviously heard them, too, as he glanced at Mickey then with an open-mouthed look that was the personification of the saying ‘ _oh fuck’_.

“Shit, Mickey…”

“Time to go!” Mickey grabbed the gun from him as carefully as he could in a hurry, double-checking absently that his own Glock was still tucked into his belt before they ran towards the car in the falling rain, shielding their eyes from the downpour before sliding in.

Mickey tossed the Uzi into the backseat, starting the engine and peeling out the best he could in that old piece of shit beater, and despite the slower pace that physically fucking pained him, he grinned to himself – actually started to laugh – as he felt his heart, hammering inside his chest. The humidity inside the car only increased at their sudden presence and dampness, and Mickey watched the way the windows began to fog as he drove – just like they did the time they had fucked in a stolen van – and Mickey wondered absently if it was going to rain every time they did wonderful, bad shit…

They tore down the dirt side-road and made a quick left before pulling out onto a paved street, Mickey finally slowing down to the speed limit when they hit the residential block nearby.

“Jesus, Mickey,” Ian breathed, chest heaving, causing Mickey to glance in his direction – Ian was smiling, too, eyeing him with a look of deviousness that turned abruptly to caution as a cruiser whipped around the block ahead of them and sped past their car at an unbelievable rate, lights reflecting off the water on their windshield.

Ian turned in his seat and watched it go, sliding an absent hand through his wet hair so that it slicked back against his head, that smile returning to his face, and Mickey felt all the things he knew you were supposed to feel when you fell.

“Come here,” Mickey spat then, the car nearly swerving into a stop sign as he leaned over to kiss Ian there in the car – in the rain, in the fog – and he vowed to himself in that exact moment – as he tasted Ian’s excited nerves on his tongue – that he would never – for the rest of his entire fucking life – tell Ian Gallagher that he had missed on purpose.

He would give Ian the money; fuck, he would give him everything he had and then some, surname be damned.

Ian slammed the front door closed behind them before pushing Mickey up against the wall, their mouths never breaking free; Mickey could feel Ian’s heart beating against his own chest – even through the layers of soaked clothes – and it only made his own thump faster.

“Fuck, _again_?” Mickey breathed, his breath hot and quick on Ian’s lips, and he didn’t even know why he asked; he’d do it whenever the fuck they could.

“We don’t have to,” Ian panted, but reached down and grabbed the bottom of Mickey’s shirt anyways, tugging it off over his head, causing Mickey’s skin to ripple at the suddenness of the cool air on his damp skin.

It made his nipples harden instantly.

“Fuck that.” Mickey smiled and bit Ian’s bottom lip, pulling it harshly, making him wince. “Yea, hurts, doesn’t it…”

“You’re so fuckin’ hot, Mick,” Ian said then, his eyes closing as he buried his face into Mickey’s neck to smell him, to suck wet kisses onto his wet skin, and Mickey closed his eyes in return, letting his head fall back against the wall as Ian trailed his mouth downwards, biting suddenly at Mickey’s nipples, sending jolts of pleasure straight into his cock.

“Fuck, Ian!”

“So fuckin’ hot…”

“I know,” Mickey breathed, tried to joke as he whimpered at the sensation. “Now fuck me.”

A quick puff of air escaped Ian’s nose in amusement at that, and it was a brief moment of warmth on Mickey’s chest before Ian lifted his head a little, burying it in the nook under Mickey’s ear.

“In the kitchen,” he whispered, making Mickey’s hairs rise.

“What?”

“If you don’t think I’m fucking you on every square inch of this house Mikhailo, you’re sadly mistaken.”

Mickey’s eyes fluttered open at the sound of his full name on Ian’s lips, and it set his fucking insides on fire as all the blood left lagging around within him rushed downwards into his dick.

“Gunna bend me over the sink?” Mickey teased, laughing a little into Ian’s shoulder as he kissed it.

“Not exactly.” Ian bent then and wrapped his arms around Mickey’s thighs, picking him up like it was his new favourite thing to do, and without hesitation, Mickey wrapped his legs around Ian’s waist in answering, letting Ian cup his ass as he held him.

Mickey was suddenly rather impressed, not just with how Ian was managing to take his entire weight in his arms, but how he managed to carry him blindly into the kitchen – their eyes closed as they made out like hungry, horny teens – before setting Mickey gently down on the countertop beside the stove.

Ian didn’t open his eyes as he grabbed at Mickey’s belt then and unfastened it, he just shifted backwards a little as Mickey pushed himself up on the counter so that Ian could slide his pants off without hindrance, and Mickey suddenly felt that same cool air on his cock – but it was a relief compared to the confining heat in his pants.

“I wanna taste you,” Ian panted, whining a little against Mickey’s forehead as Mickey reached his own hands down, rubbing his palms along the front of Ian’s track pants, feeling the hardness underneath, and fuck, Mickey had to bite his tongue to keep himself alive.

“Then fuckin’ taste me.”

Ian pulled away at once, his eyes so intense as they met Mickey’s for a moment that Mickey felt heat rise up into his face before Ian stepped back, bending forward so he could take Mickey’s dick in his hand before sliding it into his mouth, and the sudden pressure – the coolness of Ian’s fingers – made Mickey suck in an audible breath.

“That taste good?” Mickey moaned, and thrust his hips just a little, letting his left hand settle onto Ian’s head as he sucked on him, and the way that gold ring stood out as he grabbed at Ian’s orange hair made his balls draw upwards a little – made his stomach tighten.

Ian _mhmm_ ’d in agreement as he bobbed up and down, sending unbelievable vibrations into the tip of Mickey’s dick – his dick that was going so far into Ian’s mouth that Mickey didn’t know how he wasn’t choking on it – and Mickey felt that bloom begin to grow at the thought – at the sight of Ian’s mouth sliding over him – so he tightened his grip on Ian’s hair and forced his head off of him with the breaking sound of suction.

“Stop,” he whimpered, and pulled Ian’s face up to his own so he could kiss him – taste his precum on Ian’s lips. “I wanna cum with you inside me.”

“You wanna taste _me_ first?” Ian asked, the words desperately escaping directly into Mickey’s hungry mouth, and Mickey didn’t think they’d ever actually said this much; he felt his dick twitch – something in his stomach quiver a little at those simple little words, and he also thought that if they just kept saying these things, he would cum at nothing more than syllables.

“Mmm, I want your cock in my throat,” Mickey ventured, and a sound escaped Ian’s chest then that Mickey had never quite heard before – high-pitched and full of heat – and it turned Mickey on immensely.

“Fuck, Mickey.” Ian slid an arm around Mickey’s waist then and helped him down off the counter, keeping his face in his neck, biting it gently this time - softly. “Stop saying that shit…”

“You want me to stop?” Mickey asked, teased, making sure his voice was breathy, full of need. “You don’t want me to tell you how I want your cum dripping out of my ass onto the fucking floor…”

“Fuck.” Ian’s breath quickened, quivered, but he didn’t object any further as he grabbed onto Mickey’s shoulder then and shoved him down onto his knees, where Mickey was more than happy to be. “Suck my dick, baby.”

Mickey smiled up at him as he grabbed at the waistband of his track pants and the elastic of his boxers, pushing them both down at once, and Ian’s hard cock sprang suddenly free in his face; Mickey grabbed a hold of it at once, dragging his tongue down the sides, feeling the blood in his veins before kissing the tip, twirling his tongue around it, and sure enough – just as he had hoped – that sound escaped Ian’s chest once more as Mickey stared up into his open mouth and unblinking eyes, and it was Mickey’s new favourite sound in the entire fucking world.

“Keep making that fucking noise,” he begged, and slid Ian’s dick into his mouth as far as it could go, gagging on it slightly.

“You like that?” Ian reached his hand out and grabbed Mickey’s head, guiding it ever so gently, and Mickey let him, sucking loudly and deliberately, forcing not just that sound out of Ian, but precum as well that sat salty on his tongue before he swallowed it.

Mickey reached his hands up then and grabbed onto Ian’s ass, pulling his cheeks gently apart as far as he could, causing Ian’s mouth to fall open further and a huff of air to escape.

“ _Mmm_ ,” Mickey managed, laughing a little on Ian’s dick as he knowingly sent those vibrations throughout him, causing Ian’s freckled hand to shoot out immediately and push Mickey off of him, the cold yellow gold of his ring like a tiny spark against Mickey’s forehead.

“Jesus Christ Mickey I need to fuck you.” Ian reached down, pulling Mickey up into him and kissing him hard before lifting him back up onto the counter.

“Pound my fucking ass, baby,” Mickey panted, and holy fuck, those words clearly did just as much to Ian as they did to him.

Ian eyed him, a look of desperation crossing his face before he spat into his hand – just like they used to do in the beginning – and Mickey leaned backwards instinctively as Ian hitched his legs up a little, and the image of his own spit mingling with Ian’s on his hard, pink cock as he pushed it into Mickey’s asshole nearly made him blow his fucking load right then and there.

“Why are you always so fucking tight?” Ian whined, pushing himself in all the way to his balls, causing Mickey to lurch forward at the expansion – at the sound of Ian’s voice, shaking almost completely apart in front of him.

“’Cause you’re so fuckin’ big.” Mickey shifted forward then so he was on the edge of the counter – was right against Ian’s hips – and wrapped both his hands around Ian’s neck, holding him in place like he had done while fucking him the night before.

They were eye to eye now, and Mickey fucking held him there as Ian began to pound into him like they would both implode into nothingness if he didn’t.

“Gunna cum in you so fuckin’ hard…” Ian panted, his staccato breath coming hot against Mickey’s lips before he lifted his left hand suddenly, wrapping it around the back of his own neck, laying it firmly over Mickey’s, and Mickey could hear their rings clinking together as Ian fucked him.

Mickey could feel everything – could feel that tightness growing in every cell below his fucking clavicle, and he needed Ian to be on him, in every way.

“Jack me off,” Mickey spat, breathed, and Ian’s eyes narrowed – his mouth dropping open all the way at those words. “I’ll fuckin’ hold you Ian, just touch me…” Mickey wasn’t asking, he was begging, every thrust of Ian inside of him hitting his prostate, and he needed hands on him, _now_ , but he didn’t dare let go.

The first crack of thunder echoed suddenly above them then as Ian’s other hand left Mickey’s waist at once and wrapped around Mickey’s cock, and the feeling of him – the pressure and attention he gave to the head, just how Mickey liked it – was enough for him.

“I’m gunna cum all over you.” Mickey’s voice was so high that he barely even recognized it as his own as the heat inside him exploded suddenly, and he shifted his hips forward, causing Ian’s dick to go so deep that Ian actually whimpered the exact same time he did.

“Oh fffuck Mick!” And just like that, Ian pressed himself in, the two of them going forward as far as they could go as everything went fucking white, and they both came together – Ian’s dick pulsing so far inside of Mickey that it sent ropes of Mickey’s cum upwards onto Ian’s hand – onto his fucking chest – and whatever the fuck happened in the next ten seconds, Mickey didn’t think he’d ever know, because he disappeared in the sensation, and went somewhere else entirely.

Mickey knew you weren’t supposed to shower in a thunderstorm, but really, he was just surprised they had any hot water left in the fucking tank at all after the day they’d had; he did maybe feel a little bad for wasting so goddamn much of it, but he also figured that hey, it must count for something that they were at least showering together, right?

“I’m so fuckin’ hungry,” Ian declared, stepping out onto the mat before grabbing a towel, an errant flash of lightening brightening the room through the clouded glass.

“How many pizzas did you get?”

“Three,” Ian admitted, grinning sheepishly as he dragged the towel through his hair before wrapping it around his waist.

“Good.” Mickey was also fuckin’ starving, and despite what protests may come his way from the tall red-head across from him, he didn’t think he’d be able to go again – not tonight; he was spent, and his ass was actually a little sore...

Just then the doorbell rang, causing Ian to pull his towel off abruptly and slip back into his damp track pants.

“Cash is on the table?” he asked absently, striding out of the bathroom to head downstairs, and Mickey smiled as he watched him go, hurrying as if they’d both starve to death in the next ten minutes if they didn’t get food _now_.

“Yea!” he called, wiping the droplets from his legs. “Side table by the door!”

~

Some old Steven Seagal movie was playing on the TV as rain continued to tap against the glass of the windows around them. Ian sat on the couch, his back against the arm as his feet jutted outwards towards Mickey at the other end, who was currently finishing the last slice of the second pizza and trying his absolute best to argue with Ian about why Seagal was definitely a better action star than Jean-Claude Van Damme, which Ian had serious qualms about.

“That’s a powerful ponytail,” Mickey pointed out, his mouth half-full, and Ian laughed.

“Unless!” he barked, taking one final drag of his cigarette before leaning over to toss the butt into Mickey’s empty beer bottle on the coffee table. “Unless it’s double-impact Van Damme.”

Mickey snorted.

“Is that so?”

“Yea, ‘cause that’s some Van-Double-Da…”

Mickey’s phone rang suddenly beside him on the couch, cutting Ian off, but it didn’t stop Mickey from getting his stupid fucking joke and laughing like an idiot as he answered it, putting it on speaker there between them.

“Hey,” Mickey greeted, shoving the last piece of crust into his mouth.

“Hey, need a favour.”

Ian recognized Colin’s voice immediately, and he felt a bit better at the hearing of it as he leaned over to open the third fucking box of pizza.

“What’s up?”

“Could you come grab the car from me tonight?” Colin asked, causing Ian to look towards his fiancé, who raised an eyebrow before glancing out the window at the shitty fuckin’ weather; but the reservations Ian saw in Mickey’s eyes weren’t about the rain, he knew – they were about having to see Colin again, which meant having to say goodbye once more.

“Uh, sure, I guess…”

“Yea, sorry.” Colin exhaled, and Ian could tell he was smoking. “I have to meet with Sirko in the morning now to go over a massive shipment, and I need everyone. Sucks we have to do this again, but…”

Mickey leaned over, sliding a cigarette from his pack and lighting it.

“It’s all good. Whereabouts?”

Steven Seagal got punched randomly then on screen and Ian kicked at Mickey, who looked at him as he jutted a thumb towards the screen.

“Van Damme wouldn’t have gotten punched…” Ian whispered, and Mickey flipped him the bird, but smiled.

“Can you guys come to the foundry?” Colin asked, and Ian turned his head towards the phone at the words _you guys_ ; he didn’t want to get up, he was too comfy – too lazy.

“Sure.” Mickey took a long drag, letting the smoke escape his parted lips. “When?”

“Sooner rather than later, if that works.”

Ian glanced at his own phone then, pressing the homescreen button as it sat on the table; it was just after 8pm. Mickey eyed him – watching him – and raised a curious eyebrow, inquiring, so Ian held up eight fingers, to which Mickey nodded at.

“Alright, we’re on our way.”

“Thanks.” Colin coughed a little. “See you soon.”

Mickey hung up and looked at Ian, his face falling a little, as if he were upset their blissful last night at home was suddenly ruined.

“Guess we gotta go…”

“I can stay,” Ian interrupted, sitting up to set his pizza slice down in the box and wipe his hands on his pants. “If you want to see Colin one last time…”

Mickey shook his head, rubbed his palms over his eyes.

“Nah, I still don’t wanna leave you alone.”

Ian felt the corner of his mouth pull up.

“How sweet.”

Mickey flipped him the bird again.

“I should probably teach you the code word, actually,” Mickey put in then randomly as he stood, and Ian snorted.

“You have a _code word_!?” Ian thought that was some seriously Jean-Claude Van Damme shit.

“Yea, if shit’s gone sideways and you need someone to know without being obvious.”

“Amazing.”

“You don’t think Van Damme uses code words?” Mickey joked, striding to the door and sliding into his Timbs as his cigarette dangled carelessly from his lips.

Ian got up and followed suit, flicking off the TV as he went.

“I think Van Damme doesn’t need code words…”

“Oh fuck off.”

“So what’s your code word?” Ian glanced at him, seriously curious now; he imagined it was something cool, because that was just the Milkovich way.

Mickey side-eyed him, as if wondering whether or not to actually tell him, which Ian knew he would – he was his fucking fiancé after all.

“Purple,” Mickey admitted then, and grabbed the keys from off the side table by the door.

“ _Purple_!?” Ian was disappointed.

“Yea, because when the fuck would a Milkovich ever have the need to say _purple_?”

Ian huffed in amusement.

“Fair enough.”

Ian remembered almost too late that the foundry was on the same lot as the warehouse, and the thought of returning there once more after the incident made his skin crawl as they flew down the highway, the colorful graffiti on the sides of the industrial buildings that cropped up around him as they neared that lot now more familiar to him than he ever wished them to be.

“We make our ammunition here,” Mickey said absently, pulling off onto that equally familiar back road. “Can’t remember if I told you that or not.”

Ian knew he was rambling, to try and take his mind off things.

“Yea I think you mentioned it once.”

Mickey squeezed Ian’s hand absently then as they turned into the lot, and Ian felt a wave of nausea rise up into his throat as he eyed the massive building in front of them, and he knew that behind it, tucked away in the shadows, was the small, abandoned warehouse where Ian had become someone he’d never thought he’d be.

“We’re not going over there,” Mickey admitted then, smiling a little as Ian glanced at him, and turned the car to the left, towards a well-lit building on the opposite side of the lot, and Ian fucking breathed.

“Looks like an airplane hangar…” he observed absently, eyeing the one wall of the massive metal building that was completely open to the rainy, night air, warm light pouring outwards onto the dirt and the two black Range Rovers that were parked there.

“Iggy’s here,” Mickey said, obviously noticing the cars, and despite the prospect of now having to say goodbye to both of them, Ian saw the smile that played on the edges of Mickey’s lips.

Mickey pulled up and parked beside his brother’s cars – pulled up in front of the massive, open doors – and inside, sitting quietly in the warm light, Ian could see the Audi, its matte black finish just as beautiful as he remembered it.

“Is Colin giving you back your car?” Ian spat, his eyebrows shooting up a little in surprise as he stepped out of the beater and automatically glanced at Mickey, whose answering smile was enough to stop the rain from falling.

“That motherfucker,” Mickey huffed, sliding his Glock out from under his seat and sliding it into his belt. “Get me from A to B my ass…”

Ian had no idea what the fuck he was mumbling about.

“Mick,” Colin greeted suddenly, stepping out from an office just inside the doors, a toothy grin spreading across his face as he motioned towards the car. “Whatta you think?”

“You’re a fuckin’ dick,” Mickey exclaimed, but he was still all happiness and sarcasm as he stepped up into the light, Ian following closely behind, and he felt his own face split into a smile from nothing more than how happy Mickey was.

“It was my idea,” Iggy put in then, stepping out from the same room Colin had just been in.

Ian was surprised to find he was actually a little happy to see Iggy, and he wondered absently if Mandy was hiding there somewhere, too.

“Think it’ll be fast enough?” Colin asked, causing Mickey to step towards him and throw a half-hearted punch into his arm before he kneeled down to closely inspect the paint on his baby, as if just the smallest inconsistency would throw him into a rage entirely.

A huff of air escaped Ian’s nose at that, and he watched his man as he stood then, making his way slowly around the car as he looked her over, the same glint of adoration entering into his eyes that did when he eyed Ian, naked.

“Jesus, am I gunna have to compete with a fucking car?” Ian spat, which made Mickey’s smile only widen, but he didn’t tear his eyes from his baby.

Ian glanced towards Colin and Iggy, fully expecting to see them laughing, too – at their ridiculous brother, or at Ian’s comment – but they weren’t; they were just looking back at Ian in a weird, almost entirely unfamiliar way, and the smiles that _were_ on their lips pulled awkwardly up at the corners when Ian looked in their direction, as if they were feigned – as if they were trying their best to be okay with the fact that Ian was even there at all – and it was in that exact moment that Ian felt that bile rise all the way up into his mouth – it was in that exact moment that Ian knew something was wrong.

“Purple,” he said suddenly, his voice so quiet that he was afraid Mickey didn’t hear it, but he did; Mickey turned his face towards him, and the smile on his lips disappeared at the same time Colin and Iggy’s eyes widened – they obviously weren’t expecting to hear that word in that context from the mouth of anyone besides a Milkovich.

“What?” Mickey came around the front of the car, and was about to walk towards Ian when Colin and Iggy stepped in front of him, stopping him in his tracks – their taller frames blocking him suddenly from view – and Ian had never felt more abruptly alone in his entire life.

“I’m sorry, Mickey,” Colin said – his voice actually sounding like somewhere within it was genuine remorse – as his hand shot out to grab a hold of what Ian assumed was Mickey’s forearm, though Ian couldn’t really see; but it wasn’t hard to tell that Mickey immediately started to struggle.

Ian felt cold again – felt that same cold that had claimed him the night Mickey had left him the first time, but now it was mixed with the entirely new sting of betrayal.

“ _What the fuck, Colin_?” Mickey spat, trying his best to pull himself free of Colin’s grasp, only to have Iggy reach out in turn and hold him harder. “ _Ian!?”_

“I’m here, Mickey,” Ian said, his voice shaking a little as he looked suddenly around the massive building, that fight or flight instinct returning into his head – into his blood –as he waited for what he already knew was coming next; and when it came, he still wasn’t ready.

“I never trust a Milkovich,” Okulov said suddenly, and Ian whirled as that tall, fucking Russian with dark, brown eyes stepped up into the glow around them, like a demon escaping the earth into daylight. “I knew you were still alive.”

“ _No_!” Mickey yelled, obviously hearing that Russian lilt, and Ian could hear Mickey’s boots scraping against the floor behind him – could hear the grunts escaping his mouth as he fucking _fought_. “ _Colin! Please!_ ”

Ian didn’t want to turn back around – he didn’t want to turn away from Okulov for fear of being killed and never even see it coming; but what scared him more – what _actually_ kept him from turning back to face the man he loved – was the thought of what he would feel inside of him as he looked at the family that had betrayed him.

The family that he loved.

“Vasily,” Ian ventured instead, his voice steadier than he had thought it would be as he eyed the man he hated more than any other.

“Curtis.” Okulov came towards him then, a small smile playing on the edges of his lips. “Or should I say, Ian.”

That bile was about to make a sudden appearance, and Ian had to swallow hard – _hard_ – to keep it at bay as those two lilted syllables rolled their way off that poisonous tongue.

“Take me!” Mickey yelled suddenly. “Take me instead!”

Ian _did_ turn at that; Colin and Iggy had pulled Mickey further back into the room – further away from Ian – but he was standing out in front of them now, his entire body straining as he pulled against their grip with everything he had – but it clearly wasn’t enough; Colin’s massive arm was around Mickey’s neck, squeezing more than he probably should have been, and the fight inside of Mickey was making his face an unbelievable shade of red.

Iggy’s hand was wrapped firmly through Mickey’s belt – his knuckles so white from the intense grip that it looked like all the blood had left his hand entirely.

“No,” Colin said then, and neither he nor Iggy had the balls to even look Ian in the eye. “That’s not the deal, Mickey.”

“ _Deal_?” Mickey hissed, his eyes rolling awkwardly into the back of his head as he tried to look at his eldest brother behind him. “You made a fucking _deal_ with him!?’

Ian had never seen Mickey this mad – not even the night he left him; and something about it actually gave Ian a small, barely-there sense of peace.

This wasn’t going to be easy on either of them.

“He has Mandy!” Iggy spat suddenly, and Ian felt his heart nearly stop inside his chest – felt his eyes widen as his mouth dropped open at the same time Mickey’s did.

“He _what_?” Ian said it first, and the brothers Milkovich finally – _finally_ – looked in his direction, and Ian knew all at once that it was hopeless – there was nothing any of them could do now.

There was nobody left to save him.

“You understand,” Colin said simply, eyeing Ian, and it wasn’t a question; but his face went so soft then – his eyes went so fucking sad – that Ian _did_ understand – he understood completely when he answered.

“Yes.”

Ian thought of his sisters then; of his brothers; and although he wanted to hate Colin for it – wanted to hate Iggy – he knew there was nothing he wouldn’t do for the ones he loved...

Colin simply nodded, that softness on his face never leaving, and Ian swallowed.

“Heartbreak and euphoria,” Ian whispered then, not really meaning to say it out loud as the words trickled through his head, and everyone inside that room looked at him at the hearing of it; but it was Mickey – Mickey who eyed him then with complete and utter grief – who made Ian’s lip tremble as he tried his best to smile in reassurance.

Ian had always assumed that even after everything, out of those two things – those two things that were all he and Mickey were – their fate would still be _euphoria_.

Now he saw that he was wrong.

~

The fight inside of Mickey was slowly dying, and it fizzled out almost entirely as he remembered absently the words Colin had spoken to him that very morning: _Nobody kills a Milkovich_.

Okulov had Mandy, and Mickey had known the bargain that had been laid out before his brothers as soon as Iggy had admitted that truth just a couple seconds before: Mandy for Ian.

One life for another.

Mickey also knew that his brothers would do absolutely anything to get Mandy back in one piece, because Mickey would, too, he thought – he would do whatever the fuck he had to for her; but not this…surely not this.

“But he’s a Milkovich, too,” Mickey whispered then, to nobody in particular, the tears in his eyes burning as they escaped down his cheek onto the ring that sat by his chin, his hand wrapped tightly around Colin’s arm as he tried in vain to pull it away.

“No, Mickey,” Colin sighed then, and at the very least, Mickey could hear the unadulterated remorse that flooded into his voice. “He’s not.”

“But he will be, Colin.” Mickey felt his own voice tremble – felt the way his body started to go slack in Colin’s arms. “He will be.”

Ian was looking at him – his porcelain face going soft in the light as it finally fucking broke into pieces – and Mickey had never felt anything like the hole that was ripping him apart in that moment – not even when the thought of Ian dying right in front of him had been a real possibility; because now they had _more_ – they had plans for something _more_ – and hope had been lain out before them on a silver platter – a silver platter that was now being ripped away and blown apart completely.

No, Mickey could have dealt with Ian dying right in front of him, because at least there would be no pain endured by the man that he loved; but this – this wasn’t that, and Mickey knew it; Mickey knew Okulov, and so did Ian, and it was going to be anything but fast.

“I would have,” Ian said suddenly, and the sound of his voice still, somehow, brought Mickey back to life, despite the hopelessness of absolutely everything.

“You would have what?” Mickey asked, voice trembling, and he didn’t give a flying fuck who could hear them now.

“I would have been a Milkovich for you.”

Mickey felt his body come together then as he fell apart, tears pouring down his face harder than the rain that poured outside, and he sunk down onto the floor, his lungs giving way entirely as his breath disappeared.

Colin went with him, sitting down onto his knees behind him as he held his baby brother.

“You have our sister?” Iggy asked then, and in answering, more Russians than Mickey had ever seen in his life stepped out from the shadows beyond the doors, coming forward in the still-falling rain, just enough that Mickey could make out their faces in the half-light.

And he vowed to remember every single one of them.

Okulov whistled then – a high-pitched sound that made Mickey wince against the silence he was used to – and from those same shadows came Mandy, her face a little swollen and bruised from a punch or two, and despite his heartbreak, Mickey felt the rage grow inside him as two men pushed her harshly and she fell down onto her knees on the cement.

“It’s done?” Colin asked, his voice loud in Mickey’s ear, and Mickey looked up through blurry vision at the realization this exchange was about to end, and he searched once more for Ian, who was still looking at him from across the room; Mickey couldn’t tell for sure, but he thought maybe he was nodding through the tears, trying – and failing – to let Mickey know that everything was going to be okay.

It wasn’t.

“It’s done.” Okulov stepped forward then, reaching a long arm out and grabbing onto Ian’s hoodie, pulling it so harshly that Ian nearly tripped as that fucking Russian dragged his porcelain boy towards him. “You ever been to Moscow?” he asked him then, quietly, and Mickey’s heart nearly stopped.

“ _No_!” Mickey made a move, his legs shooting forward as he tried to get up as he realized the consequences of that question, but Colin held him firm, and Mickey didn’t stand a chance. “Colin,” Mickey said again – begged – but nobody seemed to be listening. “ _Please_ …”

Everything was falling apart.

Everything inside of him was imploding into nothing.

“Everything’s forgiven,” Okulov spat then, waving a hand errantly through the air, and all his men disappeared back into the darkness. “The Russians consider this debt paid.”

“Good.” Colin didn’t let go of Mickey as they all turned and headed for the fading light, he just held tighter, ensuring Mickey wouldn’t make a move to follow.

“Ian!?” Mickey called, but his voice was so soft, so hoarse, so quiet, that he knew Ian didn’t actually hear it; but despite it – as if always able to know when Mickey needed him – Ian turned back one last time – a look crossing over his face that Mickey knew instinctively was the same look Ian got when he looked at someone for the last time, and all Mickey saw then through the tears was the glint of light off the ring on Ian’s finger as he turned, and disappeared from sight.

Mickey didn’t know how much time had passed before Colin let go of him, but he was still sitting on the ground, staring at the cement floor as he cried like a fucking baby, rocking back and forth as feelings he had never known before ate their way through him like maggots.

“Mickey?” he heard suddenly, as if someone were saying his name from a mile away, through cloud and hail and fog. “I didn’t have a choice, Mick. It was the only way to get you here. I had to lie. _Mickey_!?” they called again, and it registered just a little more. “ _Mickey, I’m sorry!_ ”

Mickey glanced up then, and saw Colin kneeling down in front of him, blue eyes boring into his own with so much intensity that Mickey almost wanted to look away, but at the sudden appearance of Colin’s face – a face so much like his own – the betrayal Mickey felt clawed its way up and out of him without warning, and he launched himself forward at once, punching Colin so hard in the face that it knocked him back onto to floor, and Mickey was on top of him in an instant, his left hand holding Colin’s chest down as Mickey landed a punch, then another, and another, his fist echoing off of Colin’s brow bone before Iggy appeared out of nowhere, grabbing Mickey by the shoulders and pulling him off completely, tossing him aside onto the floor.

Mickey was so enraged that he was still throwing punches, his nails scraping against the floor as he fought to get up once more.

“Mickey!” Iggy spat, shoving Mickey even harder so that he fell back onto the cement, stepping suddenly on his chest with a single foot to hold him down with all his weight. “Fucking _stop!_ ”

“It’s okay,” Colin groaned, and leaned over onto his side, spitting a massive wad of blood out from between his lips, and for the first time in however long, Mickey felt the smallest hint of satisfaction; but despite it, the anger was still there, in every fucking cell, so Mickey focused on it, letting that feeling of rage consume him – swallow the heartbreak and the sadness whole – as he remembered absently that when he was furious, he thought the clearest.

“Mickey, I…”

“Shut the fuck up, Colin,” Mickey hissed, flinging Iggy’s foot aside as if it were nothing so that he could stand, wiping his bloody knuckles over his eyes to get the useless fucking tears out of them; he didn’t want to hear reasons or excuses, he only wanted Ian.

Mickey began pacing the room, his mind working, working, working overtime as he thought, and he thought , and he fucking thought.

He thought about every single thing he had ever learned, ever heard, ever known, and somewhere in there, he knew there had to be _something_.

“There’s nothing you can do,” Iggy said then, in complete contradiction to everything Mickey believed, and at least he had the wherewithal to sound sorry, Mickey thought, because Mickey would have gladly disfigured his face, too, without even a millisecond of hesitation.

“If you go after him,” Colin added, causing Mickey to glance down at him where he still sat on the floor. “You’ll start a fucking war.”

Mickey’s blood boiled once more from just the sight of him, and he strode directly over to his brother without a thought, kneeling down in front of him so he could take his face into his hand and force him to look into his eyes.

“If I want to start a fuckin’ war,” Mickey spat, and he no longer gave a fuck who he was talking to. “Then I’ll start a fucking war.”

Mickey flung Colin’s face away then as if it disgusted him entirely before he stood back up, the hint of an idea forming somewhere deep inside his brain, and fuck, that was something.

“Guys, please…” Mandy started – her voice a sudden song in the chaos – but Mickey shot her a look that was equal parts poison and adoration, and that shut her up entirely.

Mickey wasn’t mad at her, of course; he didn’t blame her – he didn’t actually blame any of them; she was okay, at least, and that, too, was something; but it wasn’t enough.

It would never be enough for him.

“Give me the fucking fob to my car.” Mickey held his hand out to Iggy then, who he knew instinctively was the one that had it; and maybe it was because his brother trusted him despite his current state of mind, or maybe it was because the look in Mickey’s eyes said that he would kill absolutely anyone who got in his way; but whatever it was, to Mickey’s surprise, Iggy reached in his pocket, took the fob out, and placed it in his palm.

“Don’t, Mickey,” he said, one final effort to change his mind, but it was way, way too late.

“Get the jet ready,” Mickey spat then, and headed straight for the Audi.

“The jet?”

“Yea, the fucking jet.” Mickey knew they had one on standby – Terry had used it on long-haul flights for business overseas, or to take Sirko to fucking Vegas for the weekend…

“Where are you going to go?” Colin asked, finally standing from where he still sat on the floor, and his voice was condescending – doubtful. “Fucking Moscow? Alone?”

Not Moscow, Mickey thought; not yet. Okulov wasn’t planning on leaving for at least another week, Colin had told him so himself while he sat at their fucking table only the night before.

Mickey still had time.

“New York,” Mickey admitted finally, his face hardening as he looked at his brothers – as he spared a single, concerning glance to Mandy, who stepped back against the wall, away from the fighting. “I’m going to see Fergal Maguire.”

Mickey had driven that fucking car like his life depended on it – like Ian’s life depended on it, because he knew it did; he had only made one stop on his way – at the house – to change into his suit, take a quick change of clothes, and grab one other thing…

As the jet took off, Mickey turned the baseball cap over in his hands, fingering the worn down edges as they rose up into the darkening clouds, the turbulence jolting him around slightly in his seat, but he really didn’t give a fuck; planes didn’t scare him – _flying_ didn’t scare him – but Okulov, Okulov was a different story.

Suddenly his phone vibrated and he pulled it out, not bothering to even turn it off as he looked down at the text from Colin.

**Colin: What exactly is your plan, Mickey? You care to inform me?**

Mickey almost smiled, but he couldn’t – he didn’t know when he’d be able to smile again.

**I’m going to kill them.** He typed back, and held the phone in front of his face, waiting.

**Colin: Kill who?**

Mickey breathed, let the cool cabin air enter into his lungs before he replied.

**Everyone.**

Mickey laid the phone on the table in front of him beside the blue Cubs cap, glancing out the window absently as they finally broke through the storm, and the last golden glow of sunset burst suddenly across his face, and he closed his eyes to it, letting it warm his eyelids as he leaned his head back, and let calm finally overtake him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -The end is nigh.  
> -In my mind, the stacks are the same location mickey picks Ian up at in S7E10 (let's ride!)  
> \- Expect the next chapter within a couple weeks!  
> -Thank you all for your comments, likes, whatever! I appreciate them all so much!


	16. Away: Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey does whatever he has to do. That's it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is only HALF the chapter I have been writing, but it was taking me way too long, so I decided to give you Mickey's part first, and then do a time jump backwards (like Chapter 7) to retell the days' events from Ian's perspective -which will now be Part 2, which I hope to have up within the week!  
> I love you guys, thank you for being here, thank you for being patient!  
> Forewarning for some violence. xx

It was after midnight by the time Mickey stepped down from the plane and onto the rain-wet tarmac at JFK, the lights of New York City making the low-hanging clouds that were seemingly taking up the entirety of the north-eastern sky glow like they were being lit from within.

Sleep had eluded him, though he had tried to cling to it somehow as the plane jostled its way through the night, but Mickey didn’t think he’d be able to asleep any time soon. When he closed his eyes, all he saw was Ian – Ian lost in dreams, sleeping beside him; Ian smiling as he sang absently along to some song in the kitchen while he made them breakfast; Ian closing his own eyes, leaning his head down the smallest bit so he could take Mickey’s lip into his own; Ian grinning that devilish grin while Mickey pressed the gas pedal in the Audi nearly to the floor; Ian looking at him one final time; Ian biting at his lip to keep it from visibly trembling as he turned, and left Mickey alone.

Purgatory, that’s what this was, Mickey was sure of it – it wasn’t Hell, not just yet, because there was still a chance; but it sure as fuck wasn’t Heaven, either; it was the in-between place, where he floated absently in limbo – in darkness – his feet feeling like they weren’t even touching the ground as he went forward in a daze, focused solely on what needed to happen in the next minute – in the next second.

“Mr. Milkovich,” a voice said suddenly, and a body was at once beside him, causing Mickey to flinch a little at the presence of someone so near in his personal space; Mickey looked up, and there was a man there, holding an umbrella over his head as the rain continued to trickle down.

“You with Maguire?” Mickey asked, reaching into his suit pocket and pulling out his packet of smokes before grabbing one with his lips and sliding it out.

The man reached inside his own pocket immediately, pulling out a rather fancy lighter and proceeding to light Mickey’s cigarette before he even had the chance to do it himself.

Mickey raised an eyebrow at the over-eagerness, and would have made a comment, but he didn’t care about anything anymore.

“Yes, sir,” the man answered finally, slipping the lighter back before opening the back door of a black town car across the tarmac. “I’m Fergal Maguire’s driver.”

“Mmm.” Mickey slid in, tucking his single bag beside him on the seat before unzipping it, triple-checking that the baseball cap was still inside, and his heart squeezed just a little as he looked at it – a warm memory of fondness touching at his soul – before it suddenly turned back to fucking ice and he was refilled with a single sense of purpose.

After an hour of silence, Colin had texted Mickey again mid-flight, asking for a broader explanation of his plan to ‘ _kill everyone’_ ; Mickey didn’t know why the fuck he needed to know more than that, he thought that that was enough of a plan – enough explanation; how much plainer could he put it? All Colin had to do was be fucking ready for war; but as time had passed and his heart rate slowed – as time had passed and he let the situation sink deeper into his understanding – he picked up the phone, shot a _what-the-fuck-are-you-looking-at_ glance towards the pilot, and called his brother.

They’d spoken for only twenty or so minutes, and near the end – when Mickey had rambled off the entirety of his plan – if he could really call it that – his brother had gone quiet for a minute, then almost two, before his voice finally crackled its way back down the line.

_“This is fuckin’ risky, Mickey…”_ he had said, and Mickey had nodded silently to himself in return.

_“Are you with me or not?”_

More silence.

_“What choice do I have?”_ Colin had answered, letting a long breath escape that Mickey assumed he had been holding since his baby brother had disappeared from sight.

 _“Let me dig my own grave,”_ Mickey had huffed, teasingly, finally – _finally_ – relieving some of the tension that was wrought tight between them. _“Or, help me get him back…”_

He just needed him back.

Colin had laughed, just a little – just a soft puff of breath from the other end – before going quiet once more, and Mickey could tell he was thinking – wondering even – if he should say what he was about to.

_“I didn’t have another choice, Mick…”_ he admitted eventually, deciding apparently to just go with it, and Mickey felt the anger that had never actually left rise suddenly back into his throat.

_“Don’t.”_ Mickey’d cut him off, pinching the bridge of his nose – he didn’t want to hear it.

_“No, Mickey, you have to listen…”_

_“I don’t have to do anything…”_

_“YES!”_ Colin barked suddenly, and it was so unlike him – his tone so full of desperation instead of anger – that Mickey had actually let his hand fall away from his face, glancing suddenly out the window at the blinking lights of the wing as if his brother were right out there in front of him. _“Mandy went back to the Lakehouse,”_ he started, and hearing the name of the lounge she sang at – the lounge he had taken Ian to – made a lump crawl up into Mickey’s throat, nestling in right beside the anger. _“I don’t know how, but Okulov had been told she was known to work there, and he just fuckin’ took her. I knew better, Mick, I knew better than to go with that fucking plan in the first place, but it was all I could think of at the time, and it was Mandy, Mickey, fucking Mandy, and all he wanted was Ian and…”_ Colin had stopped, and Mickey chewed on his lip, so unused to the sound of Colin’s voice like that – so fucking _sorry_ – that it actually made his breath catch in his throat more than the hearing of Ian’s name did.

_“You do know how,”_ Mickey replied, and knew he was being vague.

_“What?”_

_“You do know how Okulov found out about Mandy.”_

Colin had been quiet for another moment.

_“Yea. I know. Sirko.”_

 _“Sirko.”_ Mickey knew Colin hadn’t wanted to admit it because the obviousness of it had evaded him at first, and Mickey could tell Colin was embarrassed by something so simple.

_“That why he’s on this new kill list of yours?”_

_“No, he’s on my list because for this to work, he needs to fuckin’ die.”_

_“Mickey, listen, about the other shit.”_

_“I don’t blame you, C…”_

 _“I blame myself,”_ he’d cut in, and suddenly, he was as serious as he had ever been. _“I could have taken more time to figure something out, but, Okulov wouldn’t give me time and…and I’m with you, Mikhailo. I’m with you every step of the fucking way.”_

Mickey had chewed on his lips then as he accepted his brother’s words, and he held his breath at the wondering if he was suddenly asking too much of them; but that thought had only lasted a second before Ian flickered once more into his mind, and when he finally exhaled – when his lungs started to burn – it had been as if he were exhaling every doubt that sat hunkered in the bad places within him – as if just the knowing that his brother was going to do his best to make it right gave him all the fucking strength he needed to keep floating forward in the in-between – because he wasn’t floating alone…

Colin was there, too.

Colin was there, and Mickey didn’t blame him.

_“If this works,”_ Mickey’d sighed, rubbing a finger along his tight-lipped mouth. _“Then that means you’ll…”_

 _“I know.”_ There was a long pause, and Mickey could hear him breathing slowly, slowly, letting their new reality ebb its way throughout him. _“I’ll either be dead, or…”_

_“Or king of the fucking world.”_

_“Yea…”_

Mickey had downed the glass of Scotch the attendant brought him, wiping at his mouth, and the action of swiping away the wetness from his lips reminded him of one final favour.

_“Oh and Colin?”_

_“What?”_

_“Find where Okulov is keeping Ian.”_

It wasn’t until they actually pulled up in front of the Mandarin Oriental by Central Park that Mickey had any clue where they were going, all he knew was that Colin had said he was going to call Fergal Maguire personally and let him know Mickey was on his way to speak with him – and _only_ him – about personal business.

“I’ll get your bag, sir,” the driver said, making his way out of the car, and Mickey rolled his eyes.

“I can get it myself.” He grabbed it, having the sudden, random memory of picking Ian up that very first night, and how he had offered to carry his backpack upstairs for him; he felt another squeeze in his heart and swallowed, opening his own door before the driver got the chance and stepping out in front of what he knew was one of New York’s most expensive, 5-star hotels.

Mickey choked his sadness down, intent on nothing more than business as he wondered absently what the fuck Fergal Maguire was playing at, and he felt nerves shoot outwards into his extremities like lightning bolts when he thought about just what the fuck he was going to have to do to convince the Irishman to trust him.

“Your room is already paid for, courtesy of Mr. Maguire, you’ll just need to check in.”

_Of course it is_.

“Thanks.” Mickey reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, and slid the man a hundred dollar bill, for nothing more than being an annoying motherfucker.

Just as Mickey stepped into the lobby and up to the desk, his phone rang, Colin’s name appearing once more on the screen.

“I’m just checking in,” he answered, glancing at the receptionist as he pushed his ID across the counter towards her. “But did you find him?” His stomach was in his throat.

“Not yet but, Ian dropped his phones in my car,” Colin said suddenly, and Mickey felt his heart stop.

“What?”

“I finally just left the foundry with Iggy and when I got in my car, Ian’s phones were on the front seat.”

Mickey stepped back from the desk, the receptionist raising an eyebrow at the apparent look of distress on his face before she glanced away, tap tap tapping on her keyboard.

“How’d he…”

“I had my window down a bit. He must have slipped them in when he left with Okulov.”

Mickey sucked his bottom lip into his mouth, chewing it absently as he thought about what that meant; maybe Ian had done it to protect the ones he loved – to keep anybody from forcing their way into those phones and finding out things he really didn’t want them to know. Or maybe, Mickey thought – bile rising up from his stomach – Ian didn’t plan on ever returning, and he left them for Mickey, to keep safe, to hold onto forever.

“Colin please, don’t get rid of…”

“I won’t, Mick” Colin sighed, his voice quiet. “I’ll keep them here for you, until you’re back.”

Mickey simply nodded, his breath escaping his shaky lips as he hung up the phone and turned back towards the desk.

Fergal Maguire had booked Mickey into one of the suites on the very top floors, and although Mickey knew the Irishman was trying to impress him, Mickey didn’t altogether care – he could have checked him into a Motel 6 in a back alley somewhere, and it wouldn’t have changed the way he was feeling; he was tired – this had been the longest day of his life, filled with more happiness and sadness than any one day had the right to be; he also had a headache, and his skull was pounding as he laid his bag on the end of the bed and opened it, taking both the cap and his Glock out, setting them side-by-side on the desk before pulling out his pajama pants and sliding them on.

Colin had arranged a meeting in the morning at some restaurant nearby, and Mickey knew he needed to try and at least get some sort of rest before he slapped on his business face and went to work, but sleeping seemed just as out-of-reach and unattainable as Ian was.

Calling down to the front desk, Mickey asked for a handful of fucking Tylenol, and only when he opened the door – taking the bottle from the attendant and strolling back towards the window to look out over the light of New York City – did Mickey have the errant, random realization that Ian didn’t have his meds.

“Fuck,” Mickey hissed, his fists clenching at his sides, and he almost – _almost_ – punched the glass; he didn’t know what that meant for Ian – he didn’t know how many days Ian could go without them before things started to change for him – and he _hated_ that – he hated that that wasn’t something he had gotten the chance to find out yet, as if there were still so many things to learn about each other, and Mickey was afraid he was never going to get the chance.

Opening the bottle, Mickey popped three of them, watching a plane blink its way up into the sky in the distance as he hoped that a few days med-free wouldn’t put Ian at risk, because if Mickey had it his way, Ian would be back by his side before the week was out.

If Mickey had it his way, there would be nobody left alive that would ever come between them again.

Flicking the lamp off, Mickey crawled into the king-sized bed, rolling directly into the middle so he didn’t feel so goddamn alone before sliding his phone from off the pillow beside him and staring at that godforsaken picture of his fiancé until his lids could no longer stand it, and they fell shut.

This wasn’t the car Mickey was supposed to be in this morning; he was supposed to be in the driver’s seat of some fucking suburban blend-in-mobile in another state, heading west towards a new life with Ian by his side; instead, Mickey sat in the back of a black town car with a different stranger at the wheel in the heart of New York City, and the inside of Mickey’s lip was chewed raw from the frustration and the anger that wouldn’t let up.

“Here we are, Mr. Milkovich,” the driver said suddenly, pulling him from his daydreaming as the car came to a stop; she eyed him coolly in the rearview, as if she knew exactly who he was, and – working for Maguire – she probably did.

“Thanks.” Mickey slipped out another hundred and handed it to her.

“Just ask for Mr. Maguire…”

“Yea, no shit.”

Mickey felt sorry for anyone that was going to have to deal with him in the next 48 to 72 hours as he stepped out into a blue-sky morning – the rain finally letting up at some point during the night. Doing up his jacket, Mickey straightened it, checking absently for the Glock at his back before slicking a hand through his hair, and he was glad the collar of his dress shirt was high enough to hide the bite mark on his neck – the last physical piece of Ian that was left to him.

Mickey wanted to look as good as he could – he knew Maguire burned for him – in some form or another – and if he could use that to his advantage – for Ian’s sake – he was going to fucking do it.

Fergal was seated at a white-linen table, his emerald suit making his reddy hair stand out amongst the crowd, and if Mickey didn’t already belong entirely to another, he would have given in to this fucking guy ages ago.

Absently, he realized that he must have a thing for redheads.

“Fergal,” Mickey greeted, strolling directly over to the table and extending his hand without hesitation – he had no time to waste now.

Maguire glanced up at him, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth that said more than words ever could.

“Mickey.” Fergal stood, took his hand in both of his own, shook it gently – as if it were fragile and beautiful – before motioning to the seat opposite him. “Please, sit.”

Mickey slid in, glancing around at the full dining room that screamed opulence and money, the smell of bacon and eggs filling him to the point of near bursting.

“I took the liberty to order us some breakfast,” his host put in, waving a hand at a waiter across the room, who smiled at him before grabbing two mimosas off the bar and bringing them over. “I hope that’s alright.”

“Fine by me.” Mickey tried to smile at him, but he knew it didn’t look sincere – none of his smiles were anymore.

“So…” Fergal glanced up at their server, nodding at him in thanks and waiting until he was gone before continuing. “You’re not dead, after all, I see.”

That brought Mickey up short for a moment, until he remembered; and he actually _did_ laugh – if only a little – there in the low hum of conversation that echoed out around them.

“No, Fergal, I’m not.”

Maguire glanced away then, that smile still on his lips, and Mickey thought he looked relieved, which would have been endearing in any other circumstances.

“I was glad to hear it, when your brother called last night.”

“Were you?” Mickey was laying it on thick now, he knew it.

“Of course,” Fergal chuckled, that smile widening. “What a waste it would have been.”

Mickey felt his stomach tighten a little; he hated the feeling of betrayal just as much as he loved the feeling of being in control of a situation – of being the object of someone’s affection.

“Well, I’m here now, so…”

“So.” Fergal sat forward, taking a massive swig from his champagne flute before leveling his eyes at Mickey, voice quiet. “What can I do for you, Mr. Milkovich?”

Straight to business. Mickey thought absently that it was as if Fergal Maguire knew how to get under Mickey’s skin just as much as Mickey knew how to get under his – going for the one thing that made his skin ripple.

Besides speaking to Colin, Mickey hadn’t actually voiced his plans out loud, and he knew there were only two ways this could actually go: either really good, or really, really bad.

Mickey braced himself; there was no sense in skirting around the issue now; besides, Mickey didn’t have time for it.

“I want you to kill your boss,” he admitted then, simply – as if telling him what he had had for supper – and Mickey was surprised he had no qualms about the confession.

There was silence for a moment as the words hung there between them, Fergal’s face going suddenly flat as that smile fell slowly from his lips.

“I’m sorry,” he huffed then, sitting back hard in his chair. “Can you repeat that?”

Mickey liked the way his R’s rolled off his tongue in that lilted accent – an accent that made his disbelief seem almost comical.

“I want you…” Mickey spat, leaning forward as he emphasized each word, making it almost sound like he was simply going to leave it at that – was simply going to leave it at ‘ _I want you’_ , like a confession – before finally adding, “…to kill your boss,” on the end, as if It were an afterthought.

Mickey was going to use his apparent charm as a weapon,

Fergal smiled a little, his eyes scanning over Mickey’s face to see if he was joking in the slightest.

He wasn’t.

“And why would I do that?”

“Because I’ve asked you to.” Mickey made it seem like he knew the lengths Feral Maguire would go for him; and he also made it seem like his voice was liquid sex.

“I’m sorry, Mickey,” Fergal laughed, taking another sip of his drink, trying to distract himself from Mickey’s lips, which he kept glancing at. “But I won’t kill my boss – a member of my family – just because you’re asking nicely.”

Mickey sniffed loudly, leaning back once more; he had known they were related – knew the same last name wasn’t just a coincidence – but it wasn’t really a fact Mickey had considered before this moment – that asking Fergal Maguire to kill his uncle might be something he’d take offence to more than just killing his _boss_.

“All of the eastern states,” Mickey said then, grabbing a strawberry from the small bowl in the middle of the table and placing it between his lips, letting them rest around its pointed end as if it were the tip of a dick before biting into it harshly, and he could tell by the way Fergal’s eyes shifted back to his own that he had his attention.

“What?”

“All of the eastern states. You kill your uncle, take over the business, and the Milkoviches will guarantee that the Irish are the only other faction besides us doing business anywhere east of Nevada.”

The waiter reappeared then, eyeing them both warily as if he knew they were up to no good before setting their plates down, steam wafting awkwardly up between them.

“I think you’re forgetting something,” Fergal added, sliding a fifty into the waiters hand and shooing him away.

“And what’s that?” Mickey was amused – like he could ever forget anything.

“The Russians, for one.”

“What about the Russians?” Mickey felt his stomach turn sour at the thought of Vasily fucking Okulov.

“You may supply guns to us, Mickey, and in turn all of fucking Ireland, but the Russians are here, too, supplying weapons to Shea Sirko, who – in case you’ve forgotten – is your biggest partner, and just _another_ thing that may stand in your way…”

Mickey crossed his arms on the tabletop, turning his fork idly around and around in circles on the linen before leaning forward abruptly and taking a massive bite of scrambled eggs, as if he were the cockiest motherfucker that didn’t have a single care in the world.

“What if I told you Shea Sirko wasn’t going to be a problem much longer?”

Fergal stopped suddenly mid-bite, fork held awkwardly out in front of him as his brows furrowed, and Mickey really had his attention now,

“You’re taking out Shea fucking Sirko?” Fergal dropped his fork with a clang, causing a few people to look in their direction.

“We’re taking out Shea fucking Sirko.” Mickey stared at him, not once breaking eye contact. “And when it’s done, we’ll have his entire empire – we’ll have every single person he owns – and then…”

“And then you’ll take out the Russians.”

Mickey nodded. This was the gist of it, all wrapped up neatly into a little package with a bow; but the actual handling of it was going to be _a lot_ messier, he knew – he knew, and he couldn’t fucking wait.

“So why not go to my boss directly?” Fergal asked then, curious. “Why not ask my uncle for help instead of asking me to kill him?”

“Because he was loyal to my father, and now by association he’s loyal to Sirko. But the time for old men is over, Fergal,” Mickey admitted, and he knew it was true, and he knew he had him close. “If you do this, you will have my brother by your side, and together, there won’t be anything stopping you.”

Fergal leaned back once more, his eyes never leaving Mickey as he contemplated, and Mickey could see the gears working overtime behind his gaze.

“Why?” Fergal inquire suddenly, and even though Mickey knew the question was coming, he was still taken aback by it, and he swallowed a feeling he knew was the littlest bit of shame – of selfishness – when he thought about his single, porcelain reason for everything.

“Why what?”

“Why now? What set this whole plan in motion?” Fergal rubbed a thumb along his jaw, back and forth, back and forth. “Colin mentioned on the phone that you had your reasons, and that that should be enough because you’re an honourable man but, I’m curious.”

Mickey sniffed again, rubbing his own thumb along his temple as he looked down at his plate; for some reason, he didn’t want to look Fergal in the eye when he admitted what he was about to, as if Ian wasn’t a good enough reason for any of this – as if Ian wasn’t a good enough reason to risk everything their whole lives had been built on; but fuck that, Mickey thought; he _was_ – he _was_ enough of a reason.

Mickey lifted his gaze so that it met the Irishman’s with so much intensity that Mickey was sure he would know beyond a shadow of a doubt that there was nothing in this entire fucking world that was more important to Mickey now, and he was going to do whatever the fuck he had to, whether Fergal Maguire was going to help him or not.

“Vasily Okulov has my fiancé,” Mickey admitted, and the words didn’t shame him in the least. “And I will move Heaven and fucking Earth to get him back, whether you help…”

“I’ll help you,” Maguire interrupted then, bringing Mickey up short, and he actually felt the surprise on his face,

“What?”

Fergal laughed, a hiss of air escaping his nose in amusement.

“I’ll help you, Milkovich.”

Mickey glanced over his shoulder – glanced around the restaurant – making sure suddenly that there was nobody close enough to hear, or that he wasn’t somehow being played like an Irish fiddle.

“Why?”

“You’re asking me why I’m going to help you? Why don’t you just say thank you.”

“I just thought… Mickey shrugged, chugging his mimosa in a single go. “I just thought you’d need more convincing.”

“I know a smart business decision when I see it, your own selfish reasons be damned.” Fergal grabbed a piece of toast, scooping a large swath of butter onto his knife before spreading it over the bread. “Besides, I’ve already had some pressure from Ireland about…changing some things in the current hierarchy.”

Mickey was curious what he meant by that, but Ireland’s business was Ireland’s business, and it wasn’t his place to ask questions.

“Then what can I do?” Mickey asked instead, his voice going to a whisper. “To help, I mean.”

Fergal smiled, not meeting his eyes.

“Nothing; I already have a plan in place.”

“Are you going to need backup?” Mickey took up his own toast, tearing a chunk off before shoving it into his mouth. “We have men ready to fly in if you want…”

“I have men loyal to me,” Fergal cut in, and the way he eyed Mickey in the moment made him seem suddenly much more dangerous than the smooth façade he put on for Mickey’s sake made him usually appear.

“Alright.”

“I have one condition, though,” Fergal added, and that dangerous look in his eyes that thrilled Mickey gave way to deviousness, and that thrill transformed into weariness.

“And what would that be?”

Fergal’s gaze was on Mickey then in an instant, and just like Mickey’s look had said that he would move Heaven and Earth to get the one thing he wanted, he could tell that Fergal’s look was saying the exact same thing.

“Sleep with me.”

Mickey felt his mouth fall open the smallest bit, and even though a part of him had been expecting this, it still made him swallow hard, a sudden hitch catching in his throat; he had been thinking about it on the plane the night before; he had thought about it in the car; he had thought about it while he looked at Ian’s picture as he fell asleep; and he hadn’t been sure what he was going to say until the moment finally presented itself.

“Is that it?” Mickey felt his chest tighten as he strained his neck to the left, to the right, listening to the bones crack; he would never – in all the days he lived – do anything to betray Ian’s trust; but he also knew now that – in all the days he lived – he also would do absolutely whatever the fuck he had to to keep Ian safe, and _that_ trumped everything.

Everything.

Including breaking Ian’s fucking heart, if that’s what this meant.

“That’s it.” Fergal was calm, collected; it was as if they were speaking about exchanging books for casual reading.

“Fine,” Mickey spat finally, and he would have hated himself if it had been under any other circumstance. “But I have a condition of my own.”

Fergal glanced at him, raising a single auburn brown in questioning.

“Which is?”

“I top.” Mickey could fuck someone else, he knew he could; but there was no way anyone else beside Ian Gallagher was ever going to be inside him.

A smile spread across the Irishman’s face then – a smile wider than Mickey had ever seen before – and he nodded absently at the tabletop before grabbing his fork back up again.

“Deal.”

As soon as Mickey was back in his room, he took out his phone and called his brother, mostly because the idea of sitting alone in the quiet and focusing on all the things he still had to fucking do scared the living shit out of him.

“So?” Colin asked, cutting through the bullshit formalities, as always.

“Have you found Ian yet?” Mickey ignored Colin’s inquiry – he had more important things on his mind.

“No, Mick, not yet, but we’re working on it. As soon as I know, I’ll text you.”

Mickey swallowed.

“He’s in,” he admitted then, not wanting to change the subject from finding Ian, but he knew there was nothing else he could do right now. “Fergal’s with us.”

“Holy fuck,” Iggy said suddenly, and Mickey assumed he was there on speaker with Colin.

“Are you guys ready?” Mickey slid off his jacket and tossed it onto the desk beside the ball cap, fingering it absently as he listened. “There’s no going back now…”

“We’re ready,” Colin admitted, and he sounded sure of himself. “Everyone’s here, and the heavyweights are coming in from all the outposts. We had a roundtable this morning, there were no objections.”

“Everyone voted, then?”

“Everyone voted.”

If the heavyweights were flying in from every part of the country – from every single Milkovich operation, big or small – it meant big, _big_ things were in motion, and would send a message to anyone who was paying attention that a war was about to start.

Luckily, Milkoviches made sure nobody was ever paying attention.

“So when this all goes down, Okulov…”

“He’s yours Mick,” Iggy said then, a small huff of a laugh escaping from the other end. “Nobody’s gunna kill Okulov but you.”

“Good.”

“Did you want Sirko, too?” Colin inquired, his voice unyielding at the question, and sometimes it still surprised Mickey how cold they could be.

Mickey knew Sirko hadn’t had a direct hand in Okulov’s taking Ian, but he had been the one to tell Okulov about Mandy, and that was enough. Considering it for a moment, Mickey bobbed his head back and forth, imagining the satisfaction of watching Sirko’s eyes go empty right in front of him as his fingers choked the life from him – but in the end, it was just too much of a hassle.

“No. Stick with the plan.”

“So when do you want to do this?”

“Boss Maguire’s going down tomorrow night,” Mickey admitted. “I need to be in New York until it’s done.”

“Of course. Dad’s funeral is the next day…” Colin trailed off, and Mickey knew exactly what he was implying.

“That’s what I’m thinking,” Mickey agreed, knowing it made the most sense. “We do it at the funeral.”

“It’s public,” Iggy added, as if warning them.

“Yea, so his entire security team will be with him.”

“Right.”

“His sons will be there, too. Out of respect.”

Shea Sirko’s sons were never in the limelight, unlike the Milkoviches; he preferred them to be behind the scenes, doing their jobs like they were supposed to; Shea Sirko believed that nobody but Shea Sirko deserved to be seen by the public. That was his right.

“So we take them all out at once?” Iggy coughed, clearing his throat as he took a drag of a cigarette, and Mickey was suddenly gasping.

“Yea, right there in front of Terry’s fuckin’ casket.” Mickey took his own pack out, sliding a smoke between his lips in the middle of the room, because he had never given a fuck about rules.

“Are you sure?” Colin didn’t sound hesitant, he sounded confident – he was simply asking Mickey because this was Mickey’s plan, and he was behind him either way; the knowledge of that made Mickey’s resolve harden.

“Yes. Get the best fuckin’ snipers we have, put ‘em up somewhere over the cemetery, and when the time comes, we blast the Sirko’s right off the face of the fuckin’ earth.”

Colin and Iggy were quiet on the other end, but Mickey could hear the soft exhaling of breath as they considered.

“In front of everyone?” Iggy asked suddenly, and Mickey could hear the smile in his brother’s voice. “You’re sure?”

A grin pulled up his own lips in return.

“In front of fucking everyone.”

“I’ll get it done,” Colin spat, and Mickey nodded to himself, smoke escaping his lips in a twisted curl. “Call us tomorrow Mick, when Old Man Maguire’s finished.”

“I will.”

“Then I guess we’ll see you at the funeral, brother.”

Mickey hung up without saying anything more, the adrenaline already starting to pulse its way through him as the magnitude of everything they were about to do was suddenly laid out before him in his mind like a map, and he could see it all – every single detail – and the smile on his lips only widened.

This was still the shit he did best.

Mickey turned towards the window, exhaling smoke against the glass, the cloud dispersing out over its surface as he imagined just what it was going to feel like to watch Sirko die at his oldest friend’s funeral.

A few days ago, Mickey hadn’t even wanted to attend that funeral at all, and if he had, it was only going to be so he could spit on his father’s fucking grave; but now he had a better reason, and knowing the entirety of Chicago would be in attendance to see the lengths he was willing to go to for the man he loved, made his hairs rise, and his dick a little hard.

The only question Mickey had now was: did he really trust Fergal Maguire? It was the only question mark in his entire plan, and that was simply because Maguire wasn’t a Milkovich; then again – besides Ian – Mickey didn’t think he trusted anyone anymore, even his brothers…

Mickey sat on the end of the bed, rubbing his palms up over his face as his cigarette dangled haphazardly in his mouth; he wanted to jack off, the thought of murder and madness playing over and over in his mind – murder and madness to get Ian back to him – but he couldn’t, not with his date with Maguire looming over him; he couldn’t be spent before their night even begun.

And he knew he _would_ be spent, if he touched himself to the simple thought of Ian.

Instead, Mickey flopped back onto the bed, pinching the end of his smoke out before tossing it onto the carpet as he considered everything he knew about the Irishman. It wasn’t a whole Hell of a lot – he seemed loyal to his trade, to his people, and so far, he had never been anything but up front with Mickey; yet Mickey was still entirely alone in Maguire’s city, with nobody there to back him up if things went sideways and he _was_ being played like a fool. Suddenly though – despite that thought – Mickey was surprised to find that underneath his questioning and insecurities, he did, in fact, trust Fergal Maguire; there had always been something about Fergal that was sincere – when it came to Mickey, at least – like somehow, Fergal trusted Mickey despite knowing hardly anything about him but past business, which – for reasons Mickey couldn’t altogether fathom – made Mickey want to trust him in return; it was as if there was some weird, unspoken bond between them at nothing more than the knowing that they were both two openly gay men in a seedy world of darkness and crime – like somehow, they were exactly the same person, opening up with honesty and kindness to the people they took a liking to, but just as quickly turning a gun and blasting out the brains of someone they didn’t. Mickey didn’t altogether know why, but _not_ trusting Fergal Maguire had never once been a thought in his mind, and the only other person he had ever felt that with, was Ian.

Mickey sat up, and not for the first time, he wondered absently just what would have happened if he had met Fergal first…

but he hadn’t; he had met Ian, and not for all the power, money, cars, or sex in the world would he ever go back in time and change things.

He knew he had the better of the two.

Letting the water cascade down over him, Mickey washed every part of himself, rubbing the pre-packaged bar of soap up, over, and along his body in the heat that melted some of the shards of ice in his heart; Fergal was going to be there in an hour to pick him up, and Mickey knew that he may be able to wash the dirt from his skin, but he could never wash away the feeling of betrayal that still sat inside him like a lead weight.

When he was out, he combed his hair, looking at himself in the mirror with blue eyes that held no life in them whatsoever, telling himself over and over again in his head that it was just business, and if there was anything Mickey Milkovich could do without a second thought, it was business…right?

He dressed himself in his all-black suit; he dabbed cologne on his neck; he slid the sapphire blue pocket square in – making his dead eyes come alive – and when the knock on the door came, he was as ready as he’d ever be.

“Seriously?” Mickey spat, watching as Fergal swiped a card against the security pad in the elevator, pressing the very top floor for the penthouse suites. “You _live_ here?”

“Yup.” Maguire looked smug. “I was only a few floors above you all night…could have come down at any time…”

“Fuck you.” There was no poison in it, just annoyance, and Fergal smiled.

“You must love this kid,” he said then, completely changing the subject and throwing Mickey totally off guard as the doors to the elevators dinged open. “Is it the kid from the gala? The redhead?”

Mickey looked up at him, his forehead tightening as he remembered Ian in that tux – Ian in that tux with Okulov’s arm around him – and wondered just how much Maguire needed to know; but after everything – after all Fergal was going to do for him – Mickey didn’t see the point in keeping it a secret anymore. He needed to trust him fully – and vice versa – especially if their lives were now going to be intertwined for the foreseeable future.

“Yea.”

“Curtis, was it?”

“Yea.” Mickey didn’t bother correcting this little tidbit of misinformation; Fergal would figure out his name one day, right now, Mickey just didn’t want to say it out loud.

“Hmm.” Maguire unlocked the door, and all of New York was suddenly laid out before him as Mickey stepped in, walls of glass framing the entirety of the top floor, all of which apparently belonged to Fergal.

“Jesus, I thought _I_ had a nice penthouse suite,” Mickey huffed, his shoes tapping against the marble floor as he strolled towards the windows.

“I think I like opulence a bit more than you do. I think I have a bit more taste…”

“Y’think?”

“Considering your choice in fiancés and all…” Fergal snorted, and Mickey shot him a look of fucking daggers, his protective instincts kicking in, even when his _fiancé_ wasn’t around.

“Pardon?”

“Oh, shit.” Fergal raised his hands, as if in surrender. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I’m actually quite fucking impressed by you, and your choice in men.”

It wasn’t lost on Mickey how he said that last part with a small hint of affection, and he wondered absently why Fergal Maguire was even making him do this if he understood what it meant to Mickey.

Then again, they were in the business of taking what they wanted, and something as fickle and immovable as love wasn’t going to change that.

“Oh yea?” Mickey finally replied, slipping his hands in his pockets. “Why’s that?” He walked towards the massive island in the middle of the floor as Fergal pulled a beer from the fridge – the same kind he himself had been drinking at that bar the first time they had met in New York – and handed it to him.

“You seem to do whatever the fuck you want – to a degree, at least…”

“To a degree?”

“Yes.” Fergal leaned back against the counter, eyes scanning over Mickey’s skin, his mouth. “You do what’s best for you – what you want to do – but you never willingly seem to put your family or your business at risk.”

Mickey snorted, tossing the cap off his beer and taking a swig.

“Until now, you mean.”

“No, that’s not what I mean.”

“No?”

“No.”

“So what you mean is…”

“What I mean is that it’s admirable that the one time you’re willing to risk everything, it’s for the man you love.”

Mickey looked up at his host over the lip of his bottle, and the way that Fergal’s face softened a bit made Mickey’s heart ache for someone else.

“Well look at us,” he huffed in amusement, shaking his head to expel the images of Ian that might make him change his mind. “A couple of murderous, criminal romantics.”

A warm laugh escaped Fergal’s chest.

“Which is why you’re here.”

“Oh is that why?” Mickey smiled as best he could, taking another deep sip. “I thought I was here to fuck you.”

Fergal cast his eyes on him then, and they darkened the smallest bit – not with anger, but with lust.

“Exactly. Romantics. You want Curtis, I want you, it’s all very clinical at the end of the day.”

_Yea, you may want me,_ Mickey wanted to say. _But not in the same way._

“Just business…” he sighed instead – as if it were always going to be the simplest explanation for anything they did in this life – and drained the bottle.

“Just business.”

There were three more empty beer bottles on the counter when Fergal finally tilted his head towards the middle of the penthouse suit, where a small section was walled off – clearly his bedroom, maybe a bathroom, too – and those four beers weren’t even close to enough to take the edge off.

“Shall we?” he inquired, raising an eyebrow. “I have a meeting later with some of my men to get things sorted for tomorrow.”

Despite their declaration of being full-blown romantics deep down, there wasn’t actually going to be any romance here, and Mickey was glad of it.

“Yea.” Mickey cleared his throat, and felt a cold wave crash against his ribs. “Yea alright.”

He tried not to think of Ian as he followed Maguire through the tiny hallway – tried not to imagine where he was, or if anything was happening to him that might make Mickey murder more people than he intended; he tried not to think what Ian would be saying to him if he could see him now – what his eyes would look like as he watched him move into a bedroom with another man...

Fergal flipped on a light, the room suddenly coming to life; Mickey eyed the bed – all white crispness and perfection – and suddenly, it was all real.

“Jesus,” he mumbled to himself, quiet enough that Fergal couldn’t hear as he pinched the bridge of his nose, breathing deeply to calm the sudden nerves he felt.

It was stupid, but a part of him hoped that at the very least, he could make it good enough that Maguire would never have reason to complain – or take back his promise to help; if a good fuck is what it took, Mickey was going to give him the best fuck of his life; but despite this decision to just get on with it, it was still awkward – and really fucking unnecessary – when all was said and done.

Mickey had grown so used to falling into sex like it was the easiest thing in the world – like falling into Ian’s body – or Ian’s body slipping into his own – was like falling into sleep after a week of wakefulness; he needed Ian’s body to simply survive, and not once – not in all the days that had passed – had it ever been awkward or unnecessary.

“Come here,” Fergal said suddenly, snapping him out of his trance at once, and those words on his lips made Mickey’s heart stop in his chest – made his blood sizzle like acid.

“Don’t say that,” Mickey hissed, memories flashing through his mind, and he didn’t mean to sound angry, but he knew he did.

If Maguire was put out by it though, he didn’t say anything.

“Whatever you say, Milkovich.”

“Just get on the bed.” Mickey began undoing his buttons mechanically, and he watched with only a hint of interest as Maguire took off his suit, slowly, one piece at a time.

The Irishman was covered in tattoos from his neck to his ankles; not a single part of him looked soft or breakable like Ian, and Mickey was glad of that, too.

“Let me help,” Fergal whispered then, his burgundy boxer briefs finally falling to the floor, and Mickey eyed his pink dick – already fairly hard beneath a soft, neat patch of strawberry blonde hair – as the Irishman strolled towards him.

“If you insist.” Mickey didn’t put up a fight as Fergal finished undoing his buttons one by one, his fingers brushing softly against Mickey’s skin as he pushed the sleeves off his arms as his shirt and jacket fell to the floor.

“You’re fucking sexy, Mikhailo. You know that?”

Mickey actually huffed in amusement, a small, cocky grin pulling at his lips – a grin that faded suddenly as Fergal reached a hand out and traced Ian’s initials inked into his chest. Mickey reached up instinctively, grabbing onto Fergal’s hand and stopping him.

“Those aren’t for you to touch,” he sighed, and the way in which he said it made Maguire’s dick twitch as it rubbed suddenly against his thigh, and Mickey knew he sounded like he wasn’t in the mood for games, which was apparently turning his host all the way on.

“What about this?” Maguire inquired, raising his hand a couple inches to try and finger Ian’s bite mark.

Mickey tightened the hold on his wrists, making Fergal bare his teeth the smallest bit as small, hot puffs of air escape his lips onto Mickey’s forehead.

“Especially not that.”

“How about you just fuck me, then, Milkovich?” he answered, his eyes boring so deep into Mickey that Mickey actually felt only the smallest sparks of warmth between his thighs.

“Then get on the fucking bed.”

Maguire finally complied, strolling over and getting up onto the end on his hands and knees, and Mickey looked at his ass for only second before he closed his eyes, undoing his belt buckle and letting his pants fall to the floor before grabbing a hold of himself, imagining Ian’s hand clasped tight around him as he got harder and harder, precum beginning to drip from his slit for the man inside his mind.

“Fuck,” he breathed, a tremble, and Fergal must have thought Mickey was saying it about his ass, because when Mickey opened his eyes then, Maguire was still facing away from him when he said,

“You like what you see?”

and Mickey smiled to himself, closed his eyes, saw Ian’s face once more, and answered,

“Fuck yes,” before striding over to the bed, dick hard and leaking in his hand.

“You need a condom?” Maguire asked, moaning a little between breaths as Mickey grabbed hold of his cheeks and squeezed, pulling him apart the smallest bit, letting the sight of it turn him on as much as it possibly could. Normally, he’d be biting those cheeks – be tasting them, getting him wet and ready with his tongue – but not tonight – not with this person.

Condoms, Mickey had forgotten what those even were.

“I have one.” Mickey turned, strolling over to his pants on the floor and pulling out the rubber, tearing it open in a single go and sliding it down, down over himself, feeling hiself shudder at his own touch before strolling back to the bed.

“You need lube at least? It’s in the bedside ta…”

“No,” Mickey cut him off, grabbing hold of himself once more, just under his head, and spitting into his hand loudly before rubbing it over Fergal’s asshole, causing him to lean forward just a bit. “I’ve got enough spit to get the job done.”

“Jesus you’re fuckin’ dirty.”

Mickey pressed the tip of his dick against his opening – rubbing it around the smallest bit to loosen him up – before spitting directly down onto him once more, and Mickey wondered absently if he was doing it to be dirty, or out of disrespect.

Like Maguire’s ass was his father’s grave.

“Yea,” Mickey huffed then in answering, his mouth falling open as he pushed himself all the way in suddenly, way harder than he would have done if it were Ian. “Yea I fuckin’ am.”

“Jeeesus.” There was pain in Fergal’s voice as he expanded suddenly, but Mickey didn’t care.

“You gunna be able to handle it?” Mickey inquired, closing his eyes once more, imagining a freckled, perfect, alabaster, dusted-with-red-fuzz ass gripping around his dick, and warmth spread through him at once like electricity.

“Just fuck me, Mickey.”

And Mickey did, never once opening his eyes as he pounded into Fergal Maguire from behind, his hands forever gripping his hips as he focused on nothing more than the feeling that grew inside him at the image of Ian inside his mind; and when he finally came – after Fergal Maguire had all but ruined his own fucking sheets – Mickey had to bite hard – _hard_ – into his tongue to keep from fucking screaming Ian’s name.

It’s well past dark by the time Mickey gets back to his room again; a feeling of emptiness had clawed its way into his heart as soon as he had finished inside of that godforsaken Irishman – an Irishman he actually liked, despite everything – and it had never quite left; now, it was holed up with the betrayal – the sadness – and Mickey actually felt hatred for himself as he stripped down out of his suit and kicked it off into the corner, even though he knew that giving up that part of himself to someone else was worth it.

He had a second shower, washing the smell of another off himself, and although he was usually never one to let emotions get the best of him when it came to business, this seemed like it had to be the exception.

“Fuck, Ian,” he hissed, punching his fist forcefully into the tiles of the massive shower – feeling the sting reverberate throughout his knuckles and his bones – and he wasn’t sure if tears were falling down his face with the water or not. “I’m so fuckin’ sorry.”

Somehow, he hoped Ian would hear him, and know that it was true.

Crawling into bed, Mickey once again pulled his phone from off the table beside him, ignoring Ian’s picture completely this time – as if even just the image would judge him for the choices he was having to make – and heading straight to YouTube, putting on the very first ASMR video he could find. The sounds had never comforted him, really – he had never altogether understood this shit – but it comforted Ian sometimes, and the memories of waking in the middle of the night to the whispers creeping their way out of Ian’s ears beside him was enough to lull him into a restless sleep.

The plan was simple; Fergal was going to inform Old Man Maguire that one of the Milkovich sons was in town to personally extend an invitation to his father’s funeral, even though the invitation had – quite obviously – already been accepted.

It looked better this way, and it also provided a reason for all of them to meet at their storage warehouse on the docks in jersey – so this Milkovich son could get a better look into their expanding operation. Of course, Boss Maguire couldn’t know it was Mickey who had come – technically, Mickey was still dead after all – but Mickey knew when he walked into that warehouse tonight, and his eyes met the old man’s, Boss Maguire would know it was all over for him.

Betrayal at its highest level.

Mickey obviously knew it well.

When Mickey’s phone rang that evening – as he dressed in dark denim and sturdier boots – he expected it to be Fergal Maguire, telling him he was on his way down the elevators to retrieve him; but Mickey was a little surprised to see Colin’s name pop up, and his heart stuttered in his chest as his breathing picked up a bit, an awkward feeling of hope and fear mingling suddenly in his ribcage; hope that he had found where Ian was, and fear that it was already too fucking late.

Mickey answered.

“Is…”

“We found him,” Colin said at once, and Mickey actually felt his shoulders physically sink as the weight of the world lifted off him.

“And he’s…?”

“Alive, yea.”

Mickey fell backwards onto the bed, his legs nearly giving out as a smile pulled up the corners of his mouth, and maybe a tear fell down his cheek as he rested his head in his hand.

“Jesus, thank fuck.” Mickey knew he sounded relieved, and he wasn’t at all ashamed of the emotion in his voice.

“But…” Colin started then, but trailed off, the sudden tone in his voice sending a wave of nausea up Mickey’s throat as he glanced suddenly up into nothingness.

“But what?”

“He’s umm…”

“Just spit it out, Colin, fuck!” Mickey’s lip was trembling now, his hand reaching automatically for his Glock that wasn’t actually there at his back, but across from him on the table.

“He has him in North Side,” Colin admitted, clearing his throat as if this admission was a bad thing. “In a mansion the Russians use on…business.”

_A mansion?_

“Okay,” Mickey snorted, and wondered absently why this seemed to worry his brother so much. “Is that a bad thing?”

“It has a reinforced basement, specially designed by Okulov a few years ago for um…”

Mickey swallowed the bile that was about to make a sudden appearance.

“Persuasion…” Colin finished, and Mickey knew he meant _torture_ , but couldn’t bring himself to say it, not to Mickey.

Of course.

The breath in Mickey’s lungs picked up suddenly, coming abruptly through his open mouth in stuttered, hard pants, and before he knew it, he had stood, hanging up his phone and tossing it onto the bed in a single motion before grabbing the edge of the desk in front of him and flipping the entire thing with the unbelievably loud sound of chaos as the lamp, the Glock, the cap, his suitcase, and the tray of water glasses went crashing to the floor.

“ _FUCK!”_ he screamed, not giving a shit who could hear him now, and felt the anger well up within him, tears burning behind his eyes from nothing more than pure, unhinged rage, and even though he had known what Okulov was capable of, a part of him had really fucking enjoyed not knowing for sure.

But now he knew, and Mickey had never felt hate like the hate that was seeping its way through him like oil, and he was going to skin the man alive, he fucking knew it.

“Mikhailo?” A voice said suddenly, from somewhere beyond the door, and Mickey wanted to tear that Irish accent right out of his throat; and he fucking would have, if he didn’t need him so badly.

Mickey stormed over to the door, throwing back the bolt and swinging it open, immediately grabbing Fergal by the collar of his well-pressed suit and pushing him back – _hard_ – across the carpet and up against the wall on the other side of the hallway; Mickey could tell by the look in Maguire’s eyes that he thought this was about to be something else entirely, until Mickey tightened his grip – squeezing that shirt so fucking harshly between his fingers that Fergal’s face started to go red – as Mickey tilted his fist up just a bit, pressing it into Maguire’s neck right there in the corridor.

“I swear to fucking God Maguire,” Mickey hissed, their faces so close that Mickey could feel the heat of him. “If you do anything to fuck this up, I will kill you myself; I will tear you the fuck apart, limb from fucking limb, and I will enjoy it more than I ever enjoyed a second of fucking you.”

The sound of a door clicking open from somewhere down the hallway caused Mickey to let go abruptly, as some curious woman poked her head out from around the door to her room then, probably startled by the noises; Mickey glanced at her, biting into his bottom lip and raising his eyebrows , saying _what the fuck are you looking at?_ with his eyes instead of his words, and he must have looked as deranged as he felt, because she slammed the door at once.

Maguire pushed himself up from off the wall, pulling the bottom of his jacket down and straightening his suit before rubbing absently at the back of his neck.

Mickey eyed him – the breath coming fast through his nostrils, making them flare – and he knew he probably looked fucking feral. Maguire’s face was like ice as it stared down into Mickey’s, and Mickey braced himself for _something_ , before a tiny grin suddenly pulled up the corner of Maguire’s mouth, and he huffed in amusement.

“You know, Mickey…” he started, his accent rolling its way over Mickey’s name in a way that somehow never got old as he reached his hands out, placing his palms against Mickey’s chest. “If you didn’t love this kid so much, I probably wouldn’t be doing what I’m doing, so stop fucking doubting your friends.”

Mickey felt his brows crease, the anger within him ebb just a little.

“What?” he spat, and must have sounded dumbfounded, because Fergal actually laughed then.

“I wouldn’t risk my family – my fucking empire – for a goddamn infatuation, Mikhailo,” he sighed, glancing absently at the gold Rolex on his wrist, as if he was tired of wasting time. “Sure, I was going to get rid of my uncle eventually anyways, and sure, this gave me an opening to do it – with help, no less – but if you had even the smallest hint of doubt as to why you were risking everything, I would have said no at the start.”

_Well fuck…_

The rage inside of him died away slowly, ember by ember.

“So…” he started, stepping backwards and turning into the room so he could grab his Glock up from off the floor, and his leather jacket from where it had fallen out of his suitcase beside it. “So you agreed because I love Ian?”

Maguire’s eyebrows shot up at the name, but Mickey wasn’t worried that he had said it – somehow, he was no longer worried in the least.

“Ian?” Fergal sighed, tasting that name on his lips as he leaned up against the doorjamb. “I knew you’d tell me his name eventually.” A smile pulled up his lips once more. “But yes, Mikhailo, it’s because you love the ginger giant; I wouldn’t have sold my soul down the fucking river for anything less than true love, you American fuck.” Maguire said this with sarcasm, as if he couldn’t actually believe something so fucking corny is half of what was driving them forward.

Mickey actually snorted as he slipped into his jacket, and suddenly – just like that – they had crossed the line of formalities, shady deals, fucking, and business, and had entered into actual friendship territory, and Mickey realized absently that besides his brothers – besides Ian – Fergal Maguire was actually – technically – the only friend he really had in the entire world; and yes, he trusted him without reason; and yes, the thought at once made Mickey feel immeasurably better.

“Let’s go, Spud,” Mickey huffed then, tucking his gun into the back of his belt as he pushed past his newfound partner in crime, ready to fucking kill someone.

“Spud?”

“Teach you to call me an American fuck, you potato-plucking Irish dick.”

Mickey was waiting in the darkness, his Glock pressing into his spine as he leaned up against a far wall inside one of the warehouses at the Maguire docks in Jersey, the warm lights casting shadows out around him; there was a large, overturned boat resting in front of him – stored away for repairs or some shit, he figured – and he stood hunkered behind it, out of sight, his fingers fucking twitching, just wanting to wrap themselves around _something_ – Ian’s dick, the trigger of his gun, a fucking cigarette…

At this point, he didn’t care which one came first.

Fergal was out in the open space, fifteen of his men standing around him – fifteen men that were loyal to him, he had said – and the show of firepower in their hands and at their waists was impressive.

Mickey was glad that they were putting the Milkovich’s offloaded semi-automatics to good use.

A flash of headlights cast their way across the docks then through the open door that faced the water, followed by another three sets, and Mickey watched as Boss Maguire stepped out of a Mercedes in his signature grey suit, an entourage of ten men around him; and yea, Mickey could see that the old man may be outnumbered, but with these many fucking guns, that didn’t amount to shit.

Suddenly, Mickey realized he was actually a little bit worried about Fergal’s safety, just as much as his own.

“Uncle,” Fergal greeted, hugging the older gentleman in a tight embrace, and Mickey took a deep breath – they hadn’t planned on waiting around; if this was going to happen, it needed to happen quick – no questions, no being sidetracked.

They had a flight to catch.

“Where’s Colin?” Old Man Maguire asked then, glancing around absently, and it made Mickey smile; of course he would assume the new King of Chicago would be the only one worthy enough to grace him with his presence.

“Not Colin, actually…” Fergal sighed then, turning away from his uncle as he placed a tightened fist over his lip, and that was Mickey’s cue.

Mickey stepped out, the light casting over his face as he emerged from the shadows, and just like he had predicted – when Boss Maguire’s eyes met his own – the look on his face shifted to one of confusion, and then surprise at the quick realization that something wasn’t right.

The old man stepped back out of nothing more than reflex, and Mickey actually felt a pang of regret – he had always liked the old bastard, but he reminded himself for the thousandth time since landing at JFK that this was business, and it was Ian…

“Mikhailo!” he greeted, eyes shifting to his nephew, who still had his back to him, as if this was no longer his fight; but it was, Boss Man just didn’t need to know that yet. “I thought you were dead…”

“Nah,” Mickey huffed, finally pulling out a fucking cigarette; he guessed that was fine, he could wrap his fingers around that cigarette, Fergal could wrap his fingers around his trigger, and when all was said and done, Mickey would wrap his fingers around Ian.

That was the order he settled on.

“You knew he was alive?” the old man said then, directing this question at his nephew with so much poison that just the sound of his voice made the men he had arrived with step forward suddenly, hands going to their weapons, but not before Fergal’s men raised their guns in return, and suddenly, it was a fucking Mexican standoff.

Or so it appeared.

“Listen,” Fergal spat then, turning around finally to face his uncle, and the look in his eyes was so cold and indifferent that it sent something like arousal through Mickey, but he knew the feeling was actually probably closer to just general pleasure. “Ireland’s had enough,” he added then, and apparently that was all he needed to say for the old man to get the gist of what was going on.

“Ireland? Or you?”

Fergal huffed in amusement.

“If I wanted to kill you myself, uncle, I would have done it long ago.”

Old Man Maguire cleared his throat, stepping back absently once more, clearly trying to slowly make his way to his car.

“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you,” Mickey added then, a stream of smoke escaping his lips. “You’re just going to make it harder on yourself.”

“I _could_ just let him go, Mickey,” Fergal said then, shooting him a glance as he shrugged his shoulders. “I mean, if he agrees to let me take over the business, give me his men, I could let him go peacefully.”

Mickey eyed him; he could, he supposed, but Mickey knew that was never Fergal’s plan.

“Sure,” Mickey shrugged in return, leaning back against the boat, crossing his ankles. “You wanna go?” He directed this last question at the Boss.

“You fucking children,” Old Man Maguire huffed then, glancing at his shoes and shaking his head as he slipped his long overcoat off suddenly and tossed it to the floor, as if preparing himself to fight. “I vowed a long time ago, when I started this fucking business, that the only way I was ever going to leave it, was in a body bag.”

Fergal shifted forward then at those words, pulling his own gun from a holster under his arm without a second of hesitation, aiming it directly at his uncle, and pulling the trigger, the loud reverberation echoing out across the water as Old Man Maguire’s head exploded into a red mist that drifted its way through the warm light.

Mickey reached automatically for his Glock, bracing himself for a goddamn explosion of bullets, but was utterly fucking speechless when everyone else in the room just lowered their weapons at once.

Mickey had been expecting at least a bit of a firefight, and found he was actually a bit disappointed…

“Well then,” Fergal declared then, slipping his gun back under his jacket before pulling his pocket square from his suit and rubbing the small droplets of blood from his hands and face. “That’s that!”

Mickey snorted, causing Maguire to look in his direction.

“Jesus, I thought there was gunna be a little more resistance, at least...”

“I told you,” Fergal sighed, strolling over to where Mickey was and taking the cigarette from his hand and sliding it between his own lips. “I have men loyal to me. Well,” he stopped, taking a long drag before letting the smoke escape. “Loyal to me and Ireland, of course.”

Mickey wished he’d stop doing that – would stop stealing his fucking smokes – but also assumed that until the end of time, there was always going to be some form of playful flirting directed at him from Fergal fucking Maguire.

“I didn’t think you meant all of them,” Mickey huffed in reply. “Why the fuck did you even need me here? You clearly don’t seem to need help from the Milkoviches…”

“It wasn’t just about help,” Fergal admitted then, tossing the cigarette onto the floor before crushing it with a shiny black shoe. “It was about showing you that business is my only priority, and I’ll do whatever the fuck I have to to keep ties strong.”

Mickey glanced past the new Boss Man Maguire, eyeing the lifeless body on the floor.

“Yea, no shit.”

“But also, yes, it was about helping, too – to show my partners…” he stopped, jabbing an errant finger in Mickey’s chest. “That means you now, Mickey, that I’m here should they need me, and if the reason they need me leads to smart business, I’ll stand behind it.”

Mickey didn’t’ say anything, just jutted his bottom lip out, nodding; it was a good play.

“Colin did the same, I’m assuming?” Fergal inquired then, jutting his thumb towards the dead body on the floor, and Mickey bit his lip, not really prepared to divulge much. “Oh please, Mickey; we both know that Terry Milkovich was never going to die of natural causes.”

Mickey actually smiled.

“Nah, he went out the same way your uncle did.”

“Exactly,” Fergal exclaimed, turning to stroll casually back towards the door. “Smart business.” He stepped right over the old man’s body before pointing errantly at a group of his men – waving at them as if telling them to get this shit cleaned up – then he turned back to Mickey. “You coming? We have a funeral to get to; you can tell me about Sirko on the flight.”

“I’ll tell you one thing right now, actually,” Mickey huffed, following his host back out into the night. “It ain’t gunna be as pretty as this.”

They were back in Chicago by midnight, Mickey tearing through the streets in his Audi with Fergal Maguire beside him and an entourage of security vehicles – filled to the gills with Irish heavyweight – close on their tail. The atmosphere inside the car felt all wrong to Mickey – the red hair in the passenger seat wasn’t nearly the right shade, and the skin wasn’t porcelain, freckled; but besides the trust that was there between them, there was also a calm smile on Maguire’s face that _was_ familiar – a smile that enjoyed the thrill of going fast and the threat of chaos – and that look was enough to get him to the Ritz, drop Fergal and his men off with nothing more than a nod and a mutual understanding that they were in this now, together, before he was back on the freeway.

Going to his penthouse apartment was the logical decision – it was closer, it was probably safer at this point – but it wasn’t where he wanted to be; so Mickey headed over the bridge into South Side, only pressing the brake finally when he pulled up in front of their darkened home, staring up at it with a deep breath before getting out, locking the Audi – glancing around to make sure nobody was eyeing her with a look of envy – and strolling inside.

Colin was sitting in his living room when he opened the door, Mickey’s hand went instinctively to the Glock at his back when he saw the dark silhouette, before Colin flipped on the lamp, only the tiny hint of a grin pulling up the corner of his lips.

Mickey didn’t realize until that moment that he wasn’t really ready to see him yet, a small twist of betrayal turning over in his chest like a knife.

“The fuck do you want?” Mickey hissed, tossing his bag on the floor and strolling into the kitchen for a beer.

“I needed to see you.”

“Could have called.”

“Mick…”

“Are you alone?” Mickey inquired, glancing around. That was stupid. “I don’t think you should be wandering around without your security detail.”

Colin strolled into the kitchen behind him, leaning against the island.

“So Maguire’s dead?” he asked, sitting in one of the stools, clearly deciding to completely ignore Mickey’s attempts at getting him to leave.

“I called you from the airport man, already told you.”

“I know, I just…”

“We don’t need to make small talk, Colin. I said I don’t blame you, so just fuckin’ leave it.”

Colin looked down at his hands, rubbing his thumbs over his knuckles, fidgeting, and it was weird, Mickey thought, seeing him like this – vulnerable.

“If anything happens to Ian, Mickey, I’ll…”

“It’s a little late for that,” Mickey spat, cutting him off, the heat in his chest rising up into his face as he imagined anything at all happening to Ian in that godforsaken basement. “You knew something was going to happen to Ian as soon as you agreed to Okulov’s terms. What, did you think Okulov was gunna buy him flowers after the shit that we pulled?” Mickey took a swig, and saw the way Colin almost flinched at his words.

“No, I knew,” Colin admitted then, his face going suddenly rigid – unwavering – as he leaned back. “I knew Ian was probably going to die, but I was willing to risk that, for Mandy.”

Mickey swallowed hard at that admission; of course he had always known it was true, but finally hearing Colin say it – finally hearing him stop beating around the bush with apologies – actually made Mickey grin a little.

“I told you, I get it.”

“But I knew you’d come up with something, even if…” Colin sighed, rubbing a hand through his black hair. “Even if I didn’t want you to, because I knew it would lead to all of…” Colin waved a hand in the air, encompassing everything. “This.”

“War, you mean.”

“Yes.”

“So why’d you let me leave for New York?” Mickey leaned back against the fridge, curious. “Why’d you let me go to Maguire?”

Colin glanced at him in the dim light, his eyes blinking once, twice, before sniffing loudly in the silence.

“Because you did what I couldn’t do.”

Mickey felt his brows furrow.

“Huh?”

“I loved someone, too, Mick,” Colin confessed then, finally, and Mickey had always fuckin’ known it. “But I couldn’t choose her – I wouldn’t let myself because I need…” Colin waved his hand again. “This. It’s a part of who I am; but you, you’ve always been better than me – than Iggy; and as soon as Ian walked out of that fucking warehouse and I saw the look on your face, I knew that I had made the wrong choice. I don’t mean not getting Mandy back – obviously that was the right choice – I just mean I should have done something more, instead of taking the easy path. And I only put up a fight at first because I was trying to tell myself I had done the right thing, which actually just meant I was trying to stop myself from feeling like I failed this fucking family – that I had already failed after such a short amount of time, and…”

“Shut the fuck up, Colin” Mickey spat then, slamming his bottle down onto the counter, causing some of the liquid inside to shoot out the top and splatter his hands. “I forgive you, okay? I said it already, so don’t make me say it again. You aren’t the one that loves Ian; I am; and whoever this girl was, if the roles had been reversed, I would have done the same thing, because I don’t know the love you feel for her, but I do know the love we share for our sister. So how about we both just stop making excuses to hate each other – or excuses to keep apologizing. It’s done, I’m here now, you’re here now, and tomorrow, it’s going to be us against everyone else; so how about we also just stop arguing amongst ourselves and deal with what we know is coming.”

Colin stood up then, his resolve hardening as he nodded at the countertop, and apparently that was finally the end of it.

“I have someone on the inside, with Okulov,” he admitted then, deciding to focus on business instead, and Mickey calmed himself.

“Who?”

“Name’s Toyov, he’s a grunt, young kid but, he’s made passes before in Sirko’s circle, trying to work his way into an organization in Chicago; wants to get out of Moscow, apparently, with his wife and family…”

“And that’s something the Milkoviches can do,” Mickey smiled, and it wasn’t a question; he knew it was, and he took a sip of his beer.

“Toyov is going to get us an in tomorrow, at Okulov’s mansion. Did you want me to get a message to Ian?”

Mickey felt his breath hitch in his throat at that, wondering just what the fuck he could say – what he could give him; after a moment, his head turned automatically towards his suitcase, and he smiled. “Tomorrow,” he sighed. “Before it goes down, I’ll give you something to get to him.”

Graceland Cemetery was lit by a bright afternoon sun, its rays beating down over the water of the pond nearby, white chairs lined up back to back on its banks as guests slowly arrived one by one, black clothes creating a cloud of darkness that Mickey thought was fitting for such an occasion as this. He stood off to the side under the shade of a tree, glancing quickly at his father’s black casket before staring out at the acropolis across the water, its white pillars standing strong and sturdy, and he hoped it was a metaphor for the Milkovich empire.

“Mr. Milkovich,” a man said suddenly, a wrinkled hand reaching out from his black suit, and Mickey took it, despite not knowing who this geriatric fuck was. “My condolences.”

Mickey nearly snorted and laughed in his face.

“Thank you.” It was all about appearances today.

“We’re so sorry for your loss,” a woman added then, coming up to take the man’s arm and guide him over to a seat at the far end of the fourth row.

“I’m not,” Mickey huffed under his breath, taking a cigarette out and lighting it, not really giving a fuck about the priest that watched him with a side-eye. It took everything within him not to flip him the bird.

“You’re not what?” Iggy asked suddenly, leaning up against the trunk beside him.

“Sorry for our loss.”

“Ahh, yea, well,” Iggy stood straighter then, casting his eyes out over the lawn as he rechecked their security for what Mickey assumed was probably the tenth time; if you didn’t know what you were looking for, you probably wouldn’t be able to spot the heavyweights littered around the green grass, mingling with guests and each other between headstones as if they were nothing more than old friends of the family, here to pay their respects; but Mickey could see the slight extra girth around their waists, where they were strapped under their jackets to the teeth.

“Snipers?” Mickey asked then, quietly, smiling politely as another couple of do-gooders walked past them, nodding kindly.

“I have no idea where they are but, they’re close.” Iggy took the cigarette from Mickey’s fingers and popped it between his lips, and Mickey was suddenly reminded of Fergal Maguire as the man himself appeared then across the lawn, strolling his way between the graves in a tux of all black, five of his men by his side.

“Back up’s arrived,” Mickey smiled, and winked at his brother before heading towards the Irishman.

“Remember, you’re taken!” Iggy called to him, causing a small pang to stab its way into Mickey’s heart, but it was quickly replaced as he flipped his brother the bird and remembered that soon… _soon_.

“Quite the turn out for such a piece of shite,” Fergal exclaimed, glancing around at the horde of guests – millionaires, businessman, some shady people Mickey barely remembered from childhood.

“Yea well,” Mickey shrugged. “If I were you, I’d just take a seat at the back. Trust me.”

Fergal grinned at him, nodding his head in understanding.

“So when’s it happening?”

Mickey glanced around, leaning in the smallest bit.

“As soon as Colin stands up to give his eulogy, duck.”

A hiss of air escaped Fergal’s nose in amusement at that, and he reached out absently, checking the time on his Rolex.

“So as soon as Sirko’s dead…”

“Act like your life is in fucking danger,” Mickey added, staring him straight in the eye. “And get to the address we gave you in North Side. Have all your men on standby.”

“Can’t wait.” Fergal took a step towards the back row of white, wooden chairs – like he were about to take his seat – but turned abruptly, as if forgetting something. “Hey Mick, who’s that woman?” he asked, and Mickey turned in the direction of his questioning gaze – towards a group of younger women mingling under the shade of an oak.

“Which one?”

“Black dress.” Fergal pointed, and Mickey leaned in, trying to follow his finger.

“They’re all in fuckin’ black, dumbass, this is a funeral.”

“Jesus.” Fergal leaned in closer. “There. Diamond studs in her ears, and a sexy black eye.”

Mickey felt his throat go dry before he cleared it, remembering the way Mandy had looked stumbling to the floor at the foundry.

“My fucking _sister_!?”

Fergal’s brows shot up, the first look of actual disbelief Mickey had ever seen from the Irishman crossing his face.

“You have a sister!?”

“Yea but, she’s not in the business,” Mickey admitted, feeling his fists clench in protectiveness, and it was completely involuntary . “Why?”

“Think I could get her number?”

“Are you fucking kidding me!?” Mickey spat, and for the first time in a while, he actually wanted to laugh, genuinely.

Fergal shrugged.

“What can I say Mickey,” he sighed, turning to stroll backwards to his seat, arms spread wide in confession. “I like people, and I seem to have a thing for Milkoviches.”

Sirko and his two sons arrived just before the ceremony began, and it wasn’t lost on Mickey how Colin eyed them – how Iggy, Mandy, himself, and Fergal Maguire eyed them as they strolled casually towards the gathering of… _mourners_ ; but Sirko only seemed to have eyes for one of them; he glanced at Mickey – alive and well – his lids never falling once to blink as he walked down the centre aisle between the chairs – a beige coat draped over his black suit – before eyeing their name holders on their reserved seats, right up front beside his own.

Sirko turned, glancing back behind him, and Mickey followed his gaze, glancing at the men now standing around the perimeter of the cemetery – Sirko’s men – and Mickey shifted towards Colin out of instinct, their eyes meeting from across the lawn, and he was suddenly done hoping plans were going to work out. This was _his_ plan – Mickey was the goddamn maestro, and this was _his_ fucking modus operandi – and it was going to go exactly like it was supposed to.

One way or another.

Perfect performance.

Standing ovation.

With an encore presentation on the North Side later that night.

Mickey fastened the button on his jacket, inhaling a deep, calming breath to ready himself before strolling directly up that aisle to the front row, strolling past Colin, Iggy, Mandy, and taking a seat beside her.

Shea Sirko was seated on his right – his arm firm and solid against Mickey’s – and his two sons took up the last two places at the end of their row.

“Good to see you, Mickey,” Sirko whispered, just as the priest took his place at the podium beside their father’s casket, and Mickey smiled, not taking his eyes from that black metal coffin.

“The things we do for love,” Mickey replied casually, and leaned back as he crossed his arms over his chest, enjoying immensely that those were going to be the last fucking words he ever spoke to that old, geriatric, absolute piece of shit.

Mickey could hear the occasional clicking of cameras from the media parasites that were corralled at the cemetery gates, trying to get a picture – or at least a glimpse – of Chicago’s elite at one of the most high-profile funerals in a while; at every tiny lens shutter, Mickey’s smile only widened – he hoped they’d get a good view.

Sirko sat still, listening intently beside him, and it wasn’t until the priest had finished reading his psalms – had finished his godforsaken fucking rambling about all the good Terry Milkovich had done for this city – was it time for the eulogies.

It felt like they had been there for hours.

Mickey glanced at his brothers out of instinct, their fists imperceptibly tightening at their knees as Colin prepared to stand, and Mickey bit his tongue.

This was it, and he was fucking ready.

Mickey had never been more ready for anything in his entire life.

Placing a hand on Mandy’s thigh, he met her eyes quietly, and she breathed softly through her nose, her lips tightening the smallest bit before she nodded.

As soon as Colin stood, it happened.

Mickey felt nothing more than the spray of blood on his face as Sirko’s head fucking exploded beside him, and an echo of screams surged suddenly around him as people immediately stood in fear, trying – and failing – to run as the chairs tripped them – caught them up at every turn as they clambered over each other like animals.

Mickey barely had enough time to glance to Sirko’s son’s before the eldest – Michael – went the way of his father, his head dissolving into a beautiful red mist as another shot flew silently past Mickey, and he could have sworn he heard the hiss of air from the bullet.

“Run!” Mickey screamed at Mandy, but she was already moving, Colin and Iggy on either side of her, hunkering down as security moved in around them – Sirko’s security – trying to get to their boss as their own Milkovich heavyweights draped themselves over his siblings, and Mickey reached instinctively for Sirko’s youngest son – David; he wasn’t going anywhere. Not yet.

“Come on!” Mickey yelled at him, acting like he was his fucking savior as he pulled him to his feet, the look of shock on his face making him look sick as he stood frozen; Mickey grabbed the kid by the back of the neck, pulling him forward out of his reverie and into the chaos as people continued screaming, bodies shuffling all around – some hunkering down on the grass – and Mickey wanted to laugh.

They weren’t in danger.

“Come on, Sir!” one of Sirko’s security yelled suddenly, a hand coming out of nowhere for David, but Mickey pushed him back, standing up straight in the middle of everything, knowing full well not a single one of those bullets was going to touch him.

He felt like a goddamn superhero.

He felt untouchable.

“I think he’s staying with me,” Mickey spat, pushing David behind him, and suddenly, all he could see were Sirko’s bodyguards – ten of them standing around him with fucking semi-automatics, and Mickey could do nothing but smile as everything abruptly dwindled down to the sound of his heartbeat in his head as he waited for what he knew was coming in

Five

Four

Three

Two

One

Mickey saw everything in slow motion then as the sound of the finale of the fucking 1812 Overture echoed suddenly, randomly, through his head – the same song his father used to play sometimes when he was overly happy – and he watched with gratified amusement as the heads of the security guards blew into fucking bits around him, one by one, his eyes glancing over every single face and memorizing their final looks every time a new bullet hit a new skull, the memory of the sounds of full canons playing in his ears, and it was beautiful. He kind of wished that song was playing on full blast as his symphony came to its climactic, penultimate concerto – and he could have stood there for hours imagining it, until he abruptly remembered his place in the chaos, and grabbed David Sirko by the arm, pulling him fiercely towards the awaiting Range Rovers, yelling as loudly as he could as he went, for good measure.

“Fucking Russians!” he spat, as many times as he could, and hoped the members of the media who had stuck around long enough in terrified horror would be able to hear it as he shoved David into the back of their car, and they peeled out of sight.

Report that in your papers, you leechy fucks.

Mickey sat in a black Ranger Rover in North Side, his heart hammering in his chest – every cell in his body trying to push him forward to the mansion where he knew Ian was waiting for him; he wanted to tell everyone to go fuck themselves and just run to him – get himself killed in the process, who fucking cares.

But he had to be smart now, for Ian’s sake.

“Mickey?” Colin said again, and Mickey refocused his attention.

“What?”

“What’s your message for Ian?” Colin glanced at the young Russian – Toyov – in the backseat beside him, and Mickey all at once remembered.

“Oh, here.” Mickey turned, pulling the blue Cubs cap out and handing it to him, reluctant to even let it out of his sight. “Just put this somewhere where he can see it and….and he’ll know…

he’ll know I’m coming.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be back soon with Part 2!  
> Also, Fergal Maguire is my favourite, I don't even care.  
> And if you haven’t heard the Finale of the 1812 Overture (which you have you just don’t remember) I suggest you YouTube it and imagine Mickey standing in a sunny cemetery, watching his enemies get taken out one by one with a smile on his face. Morbid? Maybe. But it’s a magical thought to me!


	17. Away: Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "If you do it for anything, do it for love."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be the second half of the previous chapter, which means it was originally supposed to flow/transition much more smoothly at the beginning! But as you can see, this chapter is a monster, and so was the last one, and together, it would have been its own novella!  
> The star (*) after the opening paragraphs represents a time-jump backwards.  
> ** WARNING for graphic violence in this chapter, as well as conversations about sexual assault/rape, and suicidal thoughts.

Ian awoke in the silence of the basement, sitting up like a shot, as if he could actually _feel_ Mickey’s presence as that final image of his dream still sat seared into the edges of his mind: Mickey sitting in a Range Rover somewhere beyond these walls, blue Cub’s cap in his hand as he handed it to that Toyov prick that had flitted in and out of this dank fucking basement a few times over the past couple days.

Lifting his hands to his temples, Ian pressed gently, slowly; his head was still fucking pounding, and not just from the headache – from lack of food and sleep and paranoia – but from the bruising around his eyes, the sting in his split lip, and…and that space – that space behind his ear.

The thin mattress that had been Ian’s bed in the corner was uncomfortable, so he shifted, leaning back against the cement wall and placing his hand on his chest, feeling his heart beat as he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to remember Mickey’s face, trying to remember more of that godforsaken dream – a dream that had been mostly good because Mickey had been doing whatever the fuck he could to get back to him, but there was something he hadn’t liked in it – something eating him alive – and he pressed the palms of his hands against his lids as he tried – _tried_ – to remember.

Then it hit him with a wave of nausea: Fergal Maguire – that fucking Irishman with his hands on Mickey’s chest, his knees up on the bed so Mickey could take him from behind, all in the name of love – in the name of Ian’s safety.

“Fuck, Mickey,” Ian whispered, punching the floor beside him – just like his beautiful, naked Mickey had punched the shower wall in his fleeting dream – and he felt that ball of heartbreak that had been in his throat since he had turned away from his fiancé climb its way back up into the space behind his eyes, and he started to cry again there in the shadows of the night, not for the first time.

Ian knew it had only been a dream of course, but he hoped that maybe, somehow – despite the odds stacked up against him – that at least part of it had come to pass in the days since Okulov had ripped him away from his future, and that maybe everything wasn’t as hopeless as the empty feeling inside his chest told him it was.

Maybe Mickey _had_ gone to New York, Ian thought absently, to search out Maguire; maybe Mickey _had_ drank mimosas and eaten scrambled eggs like an asshole as he tried to weasel his way into getting whatever the fuck he wanted, which was something he never had to do with Ian – Mickey just had to open his mouth, and Ian would agree without him even having to say the words.

Maybe Mickey _had_ slept with Fergal Maguire before killing that old grey-haired bastard, smoking a hundred cigarettes on his way to the airport after to keep himself from remembering; but Ian didn’t think he would blame him if he had – he didn’t think he’d _ever_ blame Mickey for trying to save his life.

That Irish fuck on the other hand…

Ian laid himself back down, his entire body aching from the absence of his meds, the absence of sleep, the absence of his family, and the absence of the man he loved; there was light seeping in through the space under the door across from him, and Ian could hear the hushed whispers of Russian voices; he didn’t know what time it was anymore, but he thought it must be night, from nothing more than the quietness of the house.

That door opened then, and Toyov came strolling through, that smug look on his face the same as it had always been, and Ian was sure that it wasn’t the face of someone who would ever help a Milkovich.

“Eat,” he spat, tossing a plate of something that looked like it was supposed to be a sandwich on the floor in front of Ian with a loud clang.

“Not hungry,” Ian lied, pulling the small pillow further under his head.

“Thirsty?” Toyov’s voice sounded softer somehow, and Ian’s eyes shifted up to his face where it stood hovering above him.

“What?”

“Are you thirsty?” he repeated, and Ian wondered where the fuck the niceties were suddenly coming from.

“Yes.”

“Hang on.” Toyov turned then, strolling back through the door, but he didn’t shut it, he just left it open so the light could pour in.

Ian considered just rolling over and falling back to sleep before the Russian dick could return, and he was about to, until he saw something from the corner of his eye that made him stop, and sit up slowly in the half-light.

There on the other side of the room – as if tossed haphazardly by one of these assholes – was the Cub’s cap, sitting perfectly still and beautiful on top of the table filled with knives, its blue fabric the only glint of colour in Ian’s world.

Ian felt his heart begin to hammer in his chest at the sight of it – felt sweat begin to form on his brows as they pulled together in bewilderment.

It _had_ just been a dream, right? There was no way that Mickey was here somewhere – there was no way that that was _their_ hat – it was impossible. Ian didn’t just _know_ shit like that – didn’t believe in witchy fucking juju and psychic shit, because it didn’t exist – but as Ian’s eyes adjusted more to the light, he could see the worn edges on its sides – the sweat-marks that hadn’t quite been there before he had slipped it onto Mickey’s head that night – and in that moment Ian was sure that maybe he didn’t believe in hokey shit like _that_ – _knew_ it didn’t exist – but he _did_ believe in Mickey, and knew beyond a shadow of a doubt the lengths he would go to, despite the odds stacked against him.

*

Ian didn’t want to look back at him but he had to – he had to look back one more time to see the face of the man who had saved him, in more ways than one; he had to look back because even though he knew the look he was going to find behind those blue eyes would be a look that would kill him faster than the Russian was going to, Ian needed him to know that it was okay – that none of this was Mickey’s fault, and that none of it was Colin’s, either; he didn’t blame anyone, they were – each of them, in their own way – doing what they had to do for the people they loved most, and now, Ian was going to do the same.

“Ian?” Mickey called suddenly, so fucking quiet that Ian had barely heard it, but if grief had a voice, Ian was sure that it would sound exactly like Mickey in that moment, and that was all it took.

Turning, Ian finally glanced back towards him, and he felt the tears in his own eyes that he tried hard to hold back, for Mickey’s sake.

Colin was still grasping onto him, his arms tight around Mickey’s body, and for the briefest of moments, Ian was jealous – jealous that he was getting to hold Mickey together in the one moment he was completely falling apart – but it faded in an instant when he realized that he may never see that face again; so Ian looked at him then – _really_ looked – memorizing the way Mickey’s hair was completely disheveled, falling over his forehead; how his eyes were so fucking red that the rest of him looked way too pale; the way his tattooed knuckles were white from grasping so goddamn hard to his brother’s arm, trying in vain to pull it away from his body.

Ian thought he was beautiful.

That was the last thought Ian wanted to have, so he turned then – tearing himself away without actually wanting to – and it was like turning away from the sun to head into the pits of Hell.

Okulov was standing just beyond the doors, waiting for him in the fading light.

“Let’s go, Curtis,” he hissed, and the fact that he didn’t call him Ian made nausea roil its way up his throat; because Curtis was informal – Curtis wouldn’t make him real, like _Ian_ would – and Ian knew it was easier to inflict pain if you didn’t see your victim as a _person_.

Ian wondered how easy it would be to just grab one of their guns and end himself as he followed the massive entourage of Russians; he was cold suddenly, not just from the thought, but from absolutely everything that had happened – that was _still_ happening, that was _about_ to happen – so he shoved his hands in his pockets to keep them warm, all at once feeling the phones that were still there.

Stopping, panic worked its way abruptly through his head, and he knew he had to make a decision in an instant, before Okulov turned back around and saw him standing there like an idiot.

Mickey was on his phone – beautiful, naked Mickey; Lip, Debbie, Carl, Fiona, Liam, Franny, and Freddie were on the other.

Colin and Iggy’s Range Rovers were parked just behind him, close enough that he could be there in a second; turning back, Ian could see the passenger window rolled down on one of them.

Ian glanced quickly at Okulov – making sure he was still walking in the right direction – before turning on a dime, jogging back towards the window, pulling his phones out and squeezing them both between the open crack, watching with relief as they both landed on the seat with a thud.

Ian turned to go then – as satisfied as he could be – when the ring on his finger glinted suddenly in the glow of the light from inside the open foundry doors, catching his attention; and without a second of hesitation, Ian slid it off, tossing it through the open window in such a hurry that it missed the seat entirely and rolled its way onto the floor and out of sight.

Whatever, as long as it was with a Milkovich, Ian knew it was safe.

Okulov slid his hand up Ian’s thigh in the back of the SUV, petting absently at his track pants; unlike the last time they had been in a car together, there was nothing remotely sexual about this now – all of the heat that used to radiate under Vasily’s skin had disappeared, and all that was left was possession, property, and betrayal.

There were two other Russians in the front seat, and a Hell of a lot more in cars on all sides of them; they flew up the highway, drifting through downtown as the city lights sparkled off the black paint, and Ian would have taken a picture maybe if the time had been right.

“I don’t have my meds,” Ian said then, his voice quieter and more vulnerable than he wanted it to be, and he knew that if they looked hard enough, they’d see his hands shaking.

“Meds?” Okulov’s fingers stilled at that, just like Ian hoped they would.

“I’m bipolar,” he admitted bluntly, hoping that maybe that truth would make him a lot less interesting and a lot more worthless, considering that’s how he used to feel about himself.

Until Mickey…

“Bipolar?” Vasily spat, as if the word were foreign, which Ian supposed it was.

“Yea. Mania, depression, that kinda shit.”

“Tell me where you live and we’ll pick them up…”

Ian snorted as a laugh escaped his lips, trying to at least put on a brave face.

“Not a fuckin’ chance.”

Okulov actually smiled at that as they continued towards North Side, and Ian wondered absently just where the fuck they were going.

“You won’t need them anyways,” Vasily said then, shrugging so casually as he glanced out the window that Ian’s brave face wavered as he chewed the inside of his lip to keep from tearing up like a pussy, because despite already knowing what was coming, it didn’t really sink in until those lilted words left those poisonous lips.

Ian was going to die, there wasn’t a single hint of doubt in his mind; because not even Mickey could save him now – his resilient, tough-as-nails, to-the-ends-of-the-earth, fight-til-the death Mickey. Coming after Ian – after everything that had happened – meant risking all the Milkoviches had built an entire empire on, and Ian didn’t even think that Mickey – king of planning and details – could find a way through the Russians without endangering their ties with Sirko, and in turn, their ties with the Irish.

Nobody wants to do business with a family that risks it all for…love.

So Ian swallowed down the hopelessness that was turning his chest to ice, and chewed his lip until it bled, absolutely refusing to let that fucking Russian see anything but indifference on his face until the moment his rags of a heart stopped beating altogether.

The house was massive and completely secluded – a three-story mansion somewhere in the private, North Side suburbs with a round-a-bout driveway and fucking exterior lighting that Ian thought could probably power O’Hare.

Two security guards were at the front entrance to the driveway, black Kevlar vests strapped tight over black clothes, and Ian eyed the semi-automatics in their hands as they opened the iron gates, the entire motorcade travelling in a single file up to the front of the house before finally stopping.

Ian leaned his head up a little, glancing out the window at the ridiculousness of it all.

“Do you actually think you’re a James Bond villain?” he asked, not hiding the disdain in his voice, making sure Okulov knew by nothing more than his tone that the Milkoviches had never needed such vast displays of wealth – they were too South Side, and too smart.

Suddenly Okulov’s hand was on the back of his head, grabbing a fistful of hair and smashing Ian’s face forward into the glass, causing his eyes to instantly water from the sting in his nose as blood began to pour out of it.

“I think you better keep your mouth shut,” he hissed, and just as quickly his hand was gone, leaving Ian to blink awkwardly in the silence, wiping absently at the blood that soaked his lips.

 _Fucking Russian piece of shit_ , Ian almost barked, but he wasn’t a complete idiot.

The door beside him was yanked open then, the arm of some grunt reaching in and grabbing onto his own, forcing Ian out of the car and onto the flagstone, where he stood dazed for a second from the impact, trying to catch his breath; but before he knew it, he was being shoved up the stairs, through the main glass door into an all-marble foyer, and just because being a complete idiot was out of the question, Ian refrained from spitting his blood onto the white stone at his feet.

“Take him down, Toyov,” Okulov barked, waving his hand absently in the direction of an actual fucking elevator to their right before heading up the grand staircase in the middle of the room, which split off into two separate sections from a middle landing – one heading to the east wing, Ian supposed, another heading to the west.

Fucking rich assholes.

All around Ian were men, shuffling in through the door behind him – all of them strapped in black and taking different routes throughout the house, like ants – and Ian actually smiled at the sight, from nothing more than the simple knowledge that he was fucked for sure, because even if Mickey _did_ ever come for him – with all the Milkovich men he could muster – there was no way he was getting into this place.

The man – Toyov –squeezed Ian’s arm harder, pushing him towards the elevator, the Lebedev pistol under his jacket flashing suddenly in the bright, white overhead lights.

“That’s a nice gun,” Ian admired then, stepping willingly into the car when it arrived from somewhere above.

“Spasiba,” the man grunted, and it wasn’t lost on Ian how cocky he sounded as he pressed the basement button.

“You’re welcome.” Ian grinned, watching the stone around them through the glass walls of the elevator as they descended. “I’m going to use it to kill your boss,” he added absently, not even bothering to wipe the smile from his face as blood continued to dry on his lips.

Toyov actually laughed at that, a soft puff of air escaping his nose that caused Ian to glance at him in amusement.

The doors opened into a basement that was surprisingly cold compared to the rest of the house, in more ways than one – the lights here were static and muted; the cement walls more like a dungeon than the polished interiors of the floors above; and Ian tried not to let it break his sudden spirit – tried hard not to swallow and make his uneasiness known.

“You stay here,” Toyov said then, nodding to another security grunt as they came to a metal door at the end of a hallway.

The grunt turned, unlocking a series of bolts before opening it, and Ian at once wished he had just spit on the fucking floor, because maybe Okulov would have just shot him and gotten it over with.

Inside was a simple room: grey, cement, dank, and dim – the only light source beyond what came in through the open door was a bulb hanging from the ceiling; off to the side was a chair bolted to the floor – with straps on the arms and the legs – and below it, red-black puddles were stained into the concrete.

Ian _did_ swallow then, giving in to the fear that was crawling up his spine as he glanced at the remnants of blood that would never quite be cleaned away.

“Go,” Toyov hissed, pushing Ian forward, pointing absently to a thin, bare mattress on the floor in the corner; it was the only other item in the room besides the chair.

Ian sniffed in the silence, feeling his lip tremble the smallest bit as he tried to tell himself to be a little more like Mickey – a little more South Side, a little more unbreakable; surprisingly, it seemed to work, because he lifted his head a little then, and before he even knew what he was doing, he turned back to the two men at the door.

“Could I at least get a fuckin’ pillow?” he asked, sounding the most annoyed anyone has ever been, and actually smiled a bit when both men rolled their eyes, flipped off the light, and stormed out, leaving him alone in the darkness, where he tried desperately to cling to that feeling of fearlessness, even though it was like those dark, distant waters had returned, and were now swallowing him whole.

For every minute that ticked by, a new memory or thought popped into Ian’s head; there was nothing else to do in the godforsaken blackness that surrounded him but think; so Ian thought – he thought about everything.

He thought about the way Mickey’s skin had felt that morning when he had slid into bed beside him; he thought about Freddie wrapping his tiny hand around his finger; he thought about Carl trying to wrestle him to the ground and almost succeeding, because he was grown now; he thought about Lip handing him a cigarette across the table as they spoke about their future in hushed tones; he thought about Debbie telling him not to do anything stupid; he thought about Franny grinning at him with spaghetti sauce on her face; he thought about Fiona never laying eyes on him again; he thought about Mickey’s eyes in the rain; he thought about Mickey’s lips between his own; he thought about Mickey…

Tears were rolling their way down his cheeks before long, despite the brave face he was clinging to – but he supposed it didn’t matter right now, not here in the darkness with nobody around to see.

Ian laid himself down, shoving his arm under his head for some sort of comfort as he curled into himself, wondering absently if maybe he had always somehow known it would come to this – his eternal metaphor of being lost at sea in the darkness becoming his reality, tossing amongst the waves of fear and nausea, not knowing if that blue-eyed lighthouse on the horizon would ever blink itself into existence again.

It was morning when Toyov came back through the door; Ian knew because he could smell coffee and bacon drifting in from somewhere, and he had been in the darkness for way too long, his eyes squinting from the light that poured in with Toyov’s appearance.

Ian had barely slept, nothing but those thoughts racing through his head at a fevered pace for a good long while after he had lain his head down; but as time had passed, those thoughts had turned, and he began to focus on nothing more than the simple fact that he didn’t have his meds; at first, he had been terrified to be without them – knowing what he could become in their absence; but as time had passed, he started to think that maybe it might just be his saving grace – maybe without his meds, he would snap into a depression – a deep depression that would make dying easier and not at all scary; or – if he went the other way and became manic – maybe he would become so unbearable that Okulov would just end him without trying to gain some sort of satisfaction from his death.

“Up,” Toyov said, shoving the toe of his shoe into Ian’s ribs.

Ian gave him the finger.

Toyov reached down, grabbing a handful of Ian’s shirt at his shoulder and pulling so hard Ian heard the fabric start to tear.

“Alright! Fuck,” he hissed, pushing the man’s hand off of him and finding his brave face once more. “Could have at least brought me breakfast.”

“You eat with boss.”

“Joy.”

Okulov was sitting at the head of a table that could seat at least twenty, his black suit immaculately pressed in the morning sun that poured in through a wall of windows; it wasn’t lost on Ian the humiliation he was probably supposed to feel by being ushered towards the chair beside him, still wearing his dirty track pants and sweater, his hair and face a mess, blood still crusted on his chin.

“Mornin’,” Ian huffed, ignoring all feelings of inferiority as he took his seat, silently wishing he was saying that word to Mickey instead as the heart within his chest beat a little faster than normal.

“Eat.” Okulov motioned to the spread laid out before them: eggs and bacon and toast – and some shit Ian assumed was Russian that didn’t look appetizing in the least – all nestled on silver dishes.

Ian glanced at Vasily, his eyebrows pulling together slightly; he was starving, but accepting food from this asshole seemed like a stupid thing to do; then again, Ian didn’t think he honestly cared much anymore. 

Reaching for a bread roll, Ian flinched when Okulov’s hand shot out suddenly, grabbing onto his wrist and stopping him with such pressure that Ian winced as his bones squeezed.

“First you tell me something,” he sighed, leaning closer, his breath warm and smelling like coffee on Ian’s face.

There’s always a catch.

“Whatta you wanna know?”

“Where is your phone?” Okulov eyed him, his face looking annoyed. “You had at least one in your pocket last night, yet when we get back here, there are none. I also recall a ring on your finger…”

Ian shrugged, pleased with himself as he leaned back in his chair; no amount of food was worth it.

“Gone,” was all he said, and he knew he was in for it before Okulov’s fist even connected with his cheekbone; the sudden shock and sting making his head swim as a headache burst its way abruptly between his temples.

“You’re a mouthy motherfucker, you know that?” Okulov hissed, shaking out his hand as if his knuckles hurt more than Ian’s face. “Tell me about Milkovich.”

Ian shot him a look, his fingers coming up to massage at his cheek, and he could already feel the bruise that was forming; Okulov could hit him all he wanted though, Ian was never going to talk to him about Mickey.

“No.” Ian just stared at him, those brown eyes finding his again, and the anger within them was evident.

“I’m going to kill you, you know this, right?”

There was bile rising back up Ian’s throat, and his heart was beating faster as he tried not to think about the end he was going to have to endure at the hands of these psychos; but he would endure it, for Mickey’s sake.

“And?” 

Okulov huffed in amusement, his lips pulling up into a smile as he leaned back in his own chair, popping a grape into his mouth like it were candy.

“I always fucking liked you, Curtis. You’ve got balls.” Okulov’s eyes glanced down to Ian’s crotch. “Literally.”

Ian wanted to puke, but he choked it back.

“Yea well, Mickey sure likes them.” Ian braced himself for another punch, but it never came; Okulov just continued to stare, rubbing his chin as if he were thinking very hard about something.

“How much do you think he would pay?” Vasily asked then, catching Ian off guard.

“For what?”

“For you.”

Ian felt his chest tighten; there was no way Okulov would sell him back to Mickey, but Ian still considered his question for a second before answering; Mickey would give over every single cent of the four million dollars he had squirreled away – Mickey would give Okulov his penthouse apartment, his Rolex, every single thing he owned – including his fucking Audi – if it meant he could get Ian back; Ian knew it.

“Why are you asking?” Ian ventured, grabbing the goddamn bread roll and biting off a massive piece. “You’ll never give me back.” Ian knew that was true, too.

Okulov shrugged.

“You’re right. Do you think he’ll come for you?” There was hesitation in the way he asked this, as if the possibility of Mickey moving Heaven and Earth to get his man back was a real fucking threat, and even though Ian knew it was damn near impossible, the fact that it was on Okulov’s mind made his heart quicken in his chest, and not because of fear.

“I think Mickey Milkovich is way too smart,” Ian admitted, and it was the truth – but he didn’t mean that Mickey was way too smart to make a stupid decision like try and come for Ian; he meant Mickey was way too smart for anybody – including himself – to know the lengths he’d actually go to for anything he set his mind to.

That had always been Mickey’s gift: surprising everybody.

“Why’s that?” Okulov took a sip from his coffee mug, its matte black finish reminding Ian of all the things he loved, and Ian actually smiled then.

“Because I’m not worth it,” he confessed simply, and although he felt like it was true, he knew it wasn’t; because if the roles were reversed, Ian would be climbing into Hell itself. “Mickey may be an idiot in love, Vasily, but there is no way he would risk his brother’s empire, and believe me, after last night, I’m sure you can see that I’m not really on Colin Milkovich’s priority list.”

Okulov’s face softened at the logic in those words, that small hint of worry ebbing away slightly behind his eyes.

“Get him to the shower,” he exclaimed then, snapping his fingers at Toyov, who had been standing off in the corner the entire time.

_Shower?_

Ian swallowed hard – that subtle fear returning after speaking so candidly about Mickey – and suddenly, he was tired; he was seriously fucking exhausted.

“Listen,” he started, grabbing a piece of bacon as he stood. “If you’re going to kill me, which we both know you are, can you just get it over with?”

Okulov glanced up at him, his gaze travelling from Ian’s hairline to his toes, and that smile returned to his lips.

“In Russia, we burn traitors alive, did you know this?”

Despite trying really hard, Ian felt his face waver the smallest bit, and he hated himself for it.

“Yea, Mickey mentioned it.” Ian shoved the bacon into his mouth even though the thought of eating made him sick. “Is that what you’re gunna do to me?”

“Not yet.” Okulov stood, refastening his jacket button. “First, we fuck, I get whatever I can out of you, and then you die.”

Ian blinked in the sunlight; he didn’t know what was worse – the thought of being burned alive, or fucking Vasily Okulov.

They let him shower in a bathroom that was the same size as his seventh floor apartment in Margo’s building, and as he washed, Ian wondered absently if that hole was still there in the drywall, the exact same size as his hand.

Closing his eyes at the thought, Ian wrapped that same hand around himself, small puffs of air escaping his trembling lips as he jacked off under the showerhead that fell water on him like rain; he did it so he could imagine Mickey’s face staring up at him when he came, and he did it so he could feel like a person for just a couple minutes more; but there was also a part of him that did it so that he could taint this godforsaken bathroom and tell Okulov about it later when he absolutely refused to fuck him.

If tonight was the night he died, he was going out on a fucking high note, with the memory of Mickey grasping at him when he closed his eyes for the last time.

There were security guards standing all over the yard, their black clothing making them almost invisible amongst the shadows of night, but as Toyov marched Ian down the top floor hallway, he could see them out there through the windows that lined the wall beside him, keeping an eye on things – just waiting for something that Ian didn’t think would ever come.

Ian wondered errantly if spending the entire day in that godforsaken basement had made his eyesight better…

“So you gunna watch?” Ian asked then – turning to glance at the Russian beside him – and fuck if he wasn’t starting to sound an awful lot like Mickey, which was a good thing he supposed – it was good to just be as indifferent and unpleasant as he possibly could to make himself feel better.

That had always been Mickey’s M.O.

Until Ian…

Toyov turned then – apparently hitting his sudden quota of bullshit for the day – and grabbed Ian by the neck, pushing him up against the wall and constricting his throat until Ian couldn’t breathe, his own hands coming up to grab at the Russian’s.

“If I were you, little boy,” Toyov hissed, though he couldn’t be that much older than Ian. “I’d keep my fucking mouth shut and just do what you’re told.”

Ian tried to agree, but the pressure was too much and his airway was closing, so he nodded the best he could, and Toyov finally let him go.

“Jesus,” Ian panted, gasping for breath. “You fucking dicks…”

“Watch it.” Toyov grabbed him by the arm, turning him back down the hallway and shoving him so hard Ian nearly fell; there were more security guards at the end of the corridor, standing in front of a closed door, and the way they grinned at Ian’s bruising neck made his fucking blood boil.

“Have fun,” one of them hissed, opening the door and pushing Ian inside before closing it behind him, leaving him to stand completely alone in a massive bedroom that was quite clearly Okulov’s, the gold watch on the side-table so engrained in Ian’s mind that he hated it just as much as the man.

“If you put up a fight,” Okulov said then, striding out of a bathroom in the corner. “I will hurt you. If you scream, I will hurt you. If you do anything that doesn’t make me happy, I…”

“Will hurt me, yea, I got it.” Ian glared at him, coughing a little to try and clear the pain in his throat. “I’m not going to fuck you, though,” he admitted then, causing Okulov to tilt his head as if he were a dog. “So let’s get right to the hurting part of the evening.”

“You think I’m kidding?”

“No, I know you’re not, which is why I’m forgoing the horrible part of the night and choosing to go straight to the more appealing prospect of dying.”

Ian had lost any sense of self-preservation when he had cum in that shower.

“I’ll just take it from you,” Vasily shrugged, undoing the belt at his pants. “I don’t need your permission.”

A lump formed in Ian’s throat at that, but he had expected nothing less, and he had also come prepared; he stepped forward, putting his hands behind his back, as if he were about to enter into a normal conversation about the weather.

“You can fuck me all you want,” he started, reaching a finger out to trail it along the top of the dresser beside him. “I’m not going to care; I’ll lay there and take it, and I won’t enjoy a single fucking second…”

“I hope not…” Okulov interrupted, but Ian ignored him completely and just kept going.

“And when you’re done,” he turned to gaze into the Russian’s eyes as he strolled straight up to him. “I will smile at nothing more than the simple knowledge that the entire time you were inside of me, I was thinking about Mickey, and how he really _is_ superior to you, in _every_ way…”

The meaning was implied, and it was clearly received; Okulov’s eyes darkened and his fist shot out once more, connecting _hard_ with Ian’s jaw, causing him to stumble backwards into the dresser, a glass full of water tumbling off and smashing against the marble.

“Do you remember what you told me?” Vasily hissed, looking at his reddening knuckles. “At the gala? When you knelt over top of me and punched me, thinking you were about to be free?”

Ian despised him – he despised the way those words lilted off his fucking tongue – but at the memory of his fist cracking off that Russian skull, he smiled.

“Yes.” He knew he probably looked insane, grinning with blood in his mouth. “I told you that you no longer get to tell me what to do.”

“The thing is, Curtis, I do…”

Ian actually laughed at that, feeling manic even though he knew he wasn’t.

“Oh man,” he sighed, fingering a drop a blood from the corner of his mouth. “You can try, but honestly,” Ian glanced purposefully down to Okulov’s cock. “That little thing wouldn’t make anybody do anything…”

Bingo.

“I’m going to fucking kill you,” Okulov snapped suddenly, charging towards Ian and grabbing him by the collar of the button down they had given him to wear like some doll, his open belt buckle clanging against Ian’s waist as he twisted his fist in the fabric, holding Ian steady and punching him once, twice, the pain radiating out into Ian’s eye socket, his temples, and he tasted more blood almost immediately.

Whatever, better to get beaten up than fucked.

Before Okulov could land another, Ian got his hands up like he had learned in ROTC, grabbing Okulov’s wrist and twisting it harshly backwards so it cracked awkwardly in the open room, pushing it aside so he could throw a left hook, and the Russian’s nose crunched under the weight of Ian’s punch.

“Fuck!” Vasily spat between clenched teeth, and suddenly there was a flash of black as three security guards burst into the room, the sound of breaking glass and the scuffle clearly drawing their attention in all the wrong ways.

One of them came forward, raising his gun slightly as if he were going to shoot, and Ian finally thanked whatever Gods may be before Okulov shot his hand out, stopping him.

“Wait!” he barked, and everyone froze.

Ian was panting, his face a bloody fucking mess as he leaned his weight against the dresser; why the _fuck_ would Okulov not just let him die?

Vasily came towards him then, slowly, glancing at Ian before his eyes suddenly shifted past him – past his shoulder – and his head tilted awkwardly again as if he were focusing on something; Ian turned to see just what the fuck he was looking at, but there was nothing more behind him than a mirror on the wall, and all Ian could see was his own sweaty back, his face, and the room reflected around him.

“What the fuck are you looking at?” Ian spat, and finally worked up the nerve to hock a bloody loogie right there onto his floors.

“This.” Vasily stepped forward, grabbing Ian harshly by the ear and pulling his head forward with so much force that Ian thought he was going to rip it right off. “Got a little memento, I see?” Okulov laughed, and for only a moment Ian wondered what the fuck he was talking about, until he remembered Mickey’s initials…

_No. No no no no no…_

“Take him to the chair,” the Russian hissed, wiping the blood away from his brow bone where Ian’s knuckles had landed, and Ian felt his insides turn to ice, his entire body freezing in place as if he were suddenly terrified; because he was – he really fucking was.

Toyov was standing in the doorway eyeing him, but he stepped back out of the way when one of the grunts rolled a metal table into the centre of the room, on top of which was an array of knives that set Ian’s teeth on edge; he struggled automatically at the sight of them, his hands pulling against the restraints at his wrists.

“Just fucking kill me!” he yelled, his feigned, calm demeanor dissolving away as actual fear settled deep into his soul, and he wonder absently if this was karma coming back to haunt him for the men he had killed – for Grekov’s severed fingers and his lost life.

“I will,” Okulov answered, leaning back against the wall across from him. “Soon.”

The grunt with the table turned to his boss then, saying something in Russian that Ian didn’t understand in the slightest, but Okulov shook his head in answering.

“No, I’ll do it.”

“You can get fucked is what you can do,” Ian spat, and he knew he should just shut the fuck up, but all he wanted to do was fucking die while Mickey was still physically a part of him, because he knew without having to ask that he wasn’t going to be part of him much longer…

“The small one.” Okulov pointed to the table, causing Toyov to step forward and grab a small carving knife from its shiny surface before handing it to his boss.

“It won’t work, you know…” Ian said then, his voice poisonous in the dim light, but it was also full of longing – longing for another.

“What won’t?” Okulov twirled the knife around in his hands, laying the tip to his own finger and watching it press slowly against his skin.

“Cutting him out of me.” Ian eyed him then, and he made sure the love that he had was written all over his face. “You can get rid of that godforsaken tattoo, but you’ll never be able to cut Mickey out of me. Never.”

The Russian returned his gaze, brown eyes intent and considering as a grin pulled up his lips.

Ian wanted to tear it right off his face.

“Maybe not,” he sighed. “But I can try.”

Okulov was beside him at once, and Ian tried with everything he had to lean away as Vasily grabbed onto his head, grasping chunks of his red hair between his fingers and pushing his head ruthlessly to the side so he could get a better look.

Then there was someone else there at his other shoulder – Toyov – replacing Okulov’s grip on Ian’s hair and pulling his head even further down towards his body, and Ian could feel the bones beginning to break in his neck.

Okulov grabbed onto the tip of his ear then, folded it forward, and all there was was pain as he shoved the knife into that soft space against Ian’s skull, digging it harshly around his skin in a tight circle until Mickey was no longer there.

“Fuuck!” Ian screamed, the pain so searing behind his eyes that tears came flooding forward without warning, and he could feel the blood pouring down his neck, soaking into the collar of that godforsaken, suffocating shirt.

“See?” Okulov sighed, letting go of Ian’s ear then and shoving his hand in Ian’s face, where Mickey’s initials were now sitting in a perfectly round piece of skin that had the distant hint of freckles.

“You fucking motherfucker,” Ian cried, voice trembling as his eyes pressed shut, the pain radiating throughout his head – throughout his ear – and he was about to throw up.

“Alcohol,” Okulov spat then, holding his hand out, and like the good little piece of shit he was, Toyov obeyed, handing his boss the plastic bottle from the table.

“Fuck you.” Ian eyed him, and spat onto the floor by his feet.

“This will hurt.” Okulov upended the rubbing alcohol then, pouring the liquid directly onto the gash behind Ian’s ear, and if he thought the pain before had been bad, he was sadly mistaken.

Ian felt blood in his mouth as he bit into his tongue out of reflex; felt his jaw absolutely ache as it clenched so fucking hard his neck hurt; and he was going to pass out soon, he knew it.

“Untie him,” that Russian voice said then, and Ian’s heart actually calmed itself for a moment at those words, until he remembered he just wanted it to be over.

“Just kill me,” Ian almost begged, but he was never going to be that lucky, he knew it.

“Soon.”

Okulov tossed the chunk of tattooed skin onto the table with the knives as if it were fucking nothing, and Ian eyed it the best he could through the tears that were falling against his will, and he swore – despite everything telling him otherwise – that Mickey was still there inside of him, even if there was no longer any proof that Ian had ever had him in the first place.

All that he had had of Mickey Milkovich, was now gone.

Today was Terry’s funeral, Ian remembered; as he laid in the darkness – the pain in his face and his head making him feel sick and making his head pound – Ian wondered if Mickey was even going to go, even if it was only to spit on his father’s grave…

Ian felt his face try to smile at that, but it was becoming hard to smile at anything anymore, especially when he thought of Mickey at the cemetery – expensive black suit hugging all the best parts of him – and how he wasn’t going to be there to spit onto that casket right along with him.

“I’m sorry, Mickey,” Ian whispered in the darkness, and wished that somehow, Mickey would hear it.

The door opened then and Toyov strolled in.

Ian didn’t even bother looking at him.

“Here,” the man said, and tossed a small pillow onto the concrete beside him. “Don’t put your bad ear on it,” he added, before turning back for the door.

Ian felt his brows furrow at the seemingly kind gesture.

“What time is it?” he asked, trying to remember what time the funeral started, for nothing more than to keep his mind off of all the shit that was coming that he no longer wanted to think about.

“Time for lunch.” Toyov grabbed a bowl of something from beyond the door and came back in, setting it beside Ian’s head.

“Is that tomato soup?” Ian asked, and actually snorted. “Is it fuckin’ poisoned?”

Toyov snorted in return.

“You’re not worth that much effort,” he replied, before disappearing back into the hall and closing the door, leaving Ian to drink his soup in the shadows.

So much for kind gestures.

Ian tried to sleep, but it was hard with the images dancing through his mind one after the other, trying to grab a hold of him and drag him under into dreaming; but none of them wanted to stick around, as if he were in the deepest haze of a fever.

The door had opened at one point and Toyov had come back in, taking the empty bowl from beside him before maybe lingering around that table of knives longer than seemed necessary, but Ian was too far gone to pay much attention, his eyes falling and opening, falling and opening, the pain coming in crashing waves that made him feel sick again, then tormented, all the while the headache only getting worse.

Eventually though – as hours had passed in the black – Ian had fallen into a deep, restless sleep, and Mickey at once filled his dreams – the Mickey he knew and loved, doing whatever he possibly could to get back to Ian’s side: lying, being honest, killing, fucking, driving, waiting…

All of these things caused optimism to reappear in Ian’s chest as he slept – clawing its way throughout him – as if breathing life back into his hopelessness.

Now, Ian was sitting up in the dim light of night, squinting at that hat in the shadows, and all at once, the world came crashing down around him.

~

Mickey sat forward in his seat in the back of the Range Rover, his legs bouncing up and down in anticipation and nervousness.

“Calm down, Mick,” Iggy hissed, rechecking his Glocks for the tenth time in the row ahead of him. “Ian’s not going anywhere.”

“I’m not worried about Ian,” Mickey barked back, harsher than he meant to. “Well, I am, but I’m more worried about that fuckin’ Toyov. Do you actually think we can trust him?”

“Don’t have a choice,” Fergal answered, and Mickey was glad he was there.

“Yea, thanks, asshole.”

Fergal grinned from his seat.

“Tell me again how many men we have?” Mickey asked Colin, chewing his lip as he eyed his brother beside him; he was going to go fucking nuts soon, he knew it – he fucking hated waiting.

“Fuckin’ Hell, Mick…”

“Just,” Mickey waved a hand at him, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it. “Just do it, Colin. Please.” Mickey never said please, but he was beyond the point of caring.

“Twenty Milkovich heavyweights, all strapped with semi-automatics and vests.”

“Ten of my own,” Fergal added then, leaning back in his seat and crossing his legs like he was the Queen of England.”

“And fifteen from Sirko’s armed guard.”

David Sirko hadn’t been much of a problem; once they had ‘rescued’ him from the massacre at the cemetery, Colin had driven him directly to the Sirko office downtown, politely instructing him to call in his advisors – his seconds and his heavyweights – and inform them that Okulov and the Russians had made a move against them, and as the newest boss in the Sirko empire, David needed to meet with them immediately regarding retaliation tactics and how to move forward with business ties.

Of course David Sirko – all of nineteen years old – was still too ignorant to know friend from foe, and had accepted Colin’s help without question.

Colin had waited until the entire faction of Sirko’s most important and closest advisors had shown up a few hours later before barging his way into their little meeting with every goddamn gun he and Iggy could find, pushing David Sirko out of the way at the head of their table before informing them all that due to circumstances – and David Sirko’s lack of experience and otherwise all around pussy demeanor – they no longer worked for the Sirko’s, but were being merged into the Milkovich empire – the Milkoviches of fucking South Side – and if they had any problem with the obvious advantages of that plan, they’d find themselves out of a job, or maybe just six feet in the ground.

It was just smart business; especially when Colin told them about the Irish they had at their back.

Iggy had stepped in after that, playing a brief news clip on his phone of the shootings at the cemetery, and how the media was reporting that a Russian crime syndicate had assassinated a Chicago businessmen and his son at a high-profile funeral.

What wasn’t included in the news – Colin had told them – was that his own brother’s fiancé had been taken by the Russians in hopes of gaining the upper hand to take over not just the Sirko empire, but the Milkovich one as well, and Colin planned on getting him back – and he also planned on taking every single one of them out in the process.

Including Vasily Okulov.

There wasn’t a single _NO_ vote from anyone after that; only an idiot wouldn’t be able to see the logic and the advantages of working for the King of Chicago who now had the Irish Faction of Loyalists beside him; so David Sirko had been given a fairly generous bribe to take his younger sisters and his mother and disappear for good – which he did without question – two security guards at his back as he had vanished into the wind.

According to his brothers, not a single person in that fucking room could see a single fault in Mickey’s plan, and that’s exactly how it would always be.

Mickey had always been the smart one.

Now, they were so close – not just close to Ian, but close to owning the world.

“So we have forty-five men standing outside right now?” Mickey asked then, and felt himself smile against his will – felt his teeth dig into his bottom lip – and was thankful this dark, secluded area of North Side was where Vasily Okulov had unwillingly chosen to die.

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Forty-five had to be enough.

“But,” Fergal started, and Mickey shot him a look, causing the Irishman to raise his hands in defense. “Hey, I’m just sayin’, they have the tactical advantage.”

“Yea,” Iggy spat, rolling down his window to toss out his cigarette butt. “Holed up like fuckin’ cockroaches…”

There was a knock on the front hood of the car suddenly, and Mickey glanced up to see one of their heavyweights pointing towards the well-lit mansion down the street. Mickey followed his gaze, and could see it – the quick flashing of light that told them it was time.

Mickey took a deep drag from the cigarette between his lips, letting the smoke curl outwards and fill the back of the car.

“You ready?” he asked, and didn’t honestly care either way.

“For Ian.” Colin eyed him then, and the look on his face was that of someone who Mickey knew would never fail again.

“Yea,” Mickey nodded, opening the door beside him and hopping out into the warm air of the night, tossing his smoke onto the pavement as his heart began to hammer in his chest. “For Ian.”

Mickey chambered a round in his Glock, twisting the silencer to ensure it was firmly in place before slipping it into his belt and grabbing his suppressed Uzi from off the seat, all the while eyeing the fortress laid out before them.

Toyov had confirmed there weren’t security measures beyond the gates and the rock walls that surrounded the house; once they were over and in though, Mickey knew all Hell was going to break loose.

Crouching against the stone wall in the shadows, Mickey could hear the blood rushing through his ears in anticipation, everything coming into a crystal clear focus as he glanced around the thicket of trees surrounding him; there were now forty-five other men – forty-eight if you counted the Irishman and his brothers – now scattered throughout this tiny forest, every single one of them strapped to the teeth with silencers – every single one of them crammed down in the shadows on all sides of the walls – just waiting for the signal.

Mickey stood slowly, managing to cram his foot into a crevice and lift himself up, just enough that he could peer over the top of the wall and into the immaculately kept yard; there were at least twenty men milling about that he could make out in the low light, but he couldn’t see the other side of the house – that’s where Colin was, and Mickey knew he would be scoping this shit out at this exact moment, just like he was.

“How many?” Mickey whispered into his sleeve, adjusting the earpiece in his ear and waiting.

“Ten,” Colin’s voice came back, and it was low, ready.

Mickey didn’t know just how many of the men he had counted were amongst the ones Colin had counted, too – their numbers weren’t going to be perfect, but fuck it, it didn’t matter, they just needed an idea.

The yard was going to be the easy part, anyways.

“You ready?” Iggy asked then, and Mickey pulled his Glock out from its place in his belt in answering, making sure the Uzi was strapped securely over his shoulders.

“Fuck yes.”

And just like that, it started.

Colin let out a loud whistle from the far side of the mansion – so loud Mickey was sure he could have heard it a mile away – and before he knew it, he was over the wall, his breath coming hard as his feet hit the earth, his men coming over the stone on all sides of him like a wave of bodies and steel.

Guns started popping off before he could even take a breath – the low hiss of silencers mingling with the loud bursts of Russian AK’s – and Mickey knew he had to fucking hurry; but it was chaos, and he tried not to pay any attention to anything besides himself as he raised his Glock, moving towards the house across the wet, dewy grass.

The heavyweights were protecting all sides of him as he moved, but it didn’t stop one of the Russians from eying him within the melee, lifting his AK with his finger already on the trigger; but Mickey didn’t think he had time to die today – not with Ian so close; he squeezed before the Russian could even blink, and there was a bullet lodged in his skull before his body hit the ground.

Mickey didn’t feel a thing.

Jogging his way through the yard – between wrestling bodies, loud breaths, and stray bullets – Mickey headed for the meeting point – a barricaded back door that Toyov had said would be the easiest point of access.

If that Russian fucked them, Mickey already had a list of things he planned to do to him…

“Fuckin Milkoviches!” someone spat suddenly – their poisonous voice catching Mickey’s attention amongst the bedlam – and Mickey actually smiled then as he turned, watching with only a hint of anger as one of his own men caught a bullet to the face, falling like a sack of bricks into the grass.

Mickey eyed the man who had shot him – the man who had spoken – their gazes locking before he was suddenly running towards Mickey at full speed – his gun dislodged from the apparent scuffle with his heavyweight – and Mickey got his Glock up just in time to fire, but he missed – he fucking _missed_ as the Russian dipped to the side at the last second – and the next thing Mickey knew, the Russian was on him, pushing him back hard against the wall of the house.

“Fucker!” Mickey spat, his Glock dropping to the ground at the exact same time the yard was abruptly flooded with brilliant, white light – the security lights clearly being flipped on from somewhere inside – and there was no longer an element of surprise.

Mickey grabbed the hands that clung to his vest, feeling one of them let go before it swung back and hit him in the face, causing Mickey to turn away from the pain; but Mickey wasn’t completely fucked – not yet.

Grabbing onto one of the man’s wrists with his right hand, Mickey twisted it harshly before shifting back his left – just like Ian had taught him – and he was barely able to see from the sting in his eyes as he turned his entire body and threw a hail Mary; but even over the gunshots and panting breaths that echoed out around him, Mickey could hear his knuckles hitting the Russian’s face as he connected.

At Mickey’s waist was a knife, and he reached blindly for it – his fingers flitting absently over his belt trying to find the handle – and when he finally felt it, he grabbed it so tight that he was sure his knuckles went white as he pulled it out with a grunt of effort, and before he knew what had happened, it was in the side of the Russian’s neck, blood beginning to spurt its way outwards as soon as Mickey removed it, the serrated edge making the pull-back a bit more difficult.

“That’s for Ian,” he hissed, and bent, picking his Glock up from off the ground – kissing the side of it absently as if it were Ian himself – before continuing around towards the back of the house.

There was another Russian on top of one of their heavyweights in the grass across from the back door – both of them struggling to gain control without their weapons – so Mickey raised his gun once more, not a single hint of hesitation stopping him from shooting the Russian in the head, his body falling forward at once, directly onto the vest-clad chest of his heavyweight below him.

“Here,” Mickey spat, striding over towards them and kicking the body off as if it were garbage before holding his hand out, the sounds of guns beginning to die away around them as he helped the man to his feet.

“Thanks, boss.”

“Let’s go.” Mickey tilted his head towards the house, urging him to follow.

They were going to need fucking everyone.

Colin came into view then, stumbling into a beam of floodlight on the opposite side of the house, his hands struggling hard against someone a lot bigger than him, which Mickey didn’t think was possible. Mickey felt his heart leap into his throat at the sight – at the sudden worry for his brother’s safety – and he went forward immediately to help, but before he could get there, Iggy came out of nowhere, placing the muzzle of his Glock straight to the bigger guy’s head and blasting its contents all over Colin’s face.

Colin just smiled beneath the blood, and so did Iggy; and Mickey couldn’t help the grin that spread across his own face then as he watched their hands reach absently out for each other like brothers do, before they turned towards the house – their eyes all meeting as they converged on the entrance – and in less than two minutes, there wasn’t a single Russian left alive outside.

“Now for the fun part,” Iggy exclaimed, coming up to the back door, where Mickey was already sliding his Glock back into place at his back and pulling the Uzi from around his shoulders.

As if on instinct – as if wanting to check that _everyone_ was accounted for – Mickey glanced around for Fergal, but knew Fergal was out of sight, exactly where he was supposed to be.

“Jackson!?” Colin called, looking around for the heavyweight who handled their armory, all of them silently hoping he hadn’t died in the fucking melee…

“Here.” Jackson’s face was covered in blood as he scurried through the horde of their men that congregated at the back door, and Mickey wondered absently if they all looked like barbarians, because not a single one of them didn’t have blood on them _somewhere_.

“They’re all going to be waiting,” Colin put in, just reiterating a fact they all already knew, and Mickey was vibrating with expectation.

“I’m counting on it.”

“We have to make this quick,” Iggy added, glancing around the massive group people. “Our guys on the force can’t hold the rest of the pigs back forever...”

“Then let’s fucking go.” Mickey stepped back then, thinking of Ian as everyone followed suit, allowing Jackson to attach the C-4 to the barricaded doorway they knew was almost impenetrable.

_Almost._

Every single one of them tucked their heads into their shoulders then, pressing back against the walls and huddling alongside the stones of the house as Jackson clicked the detonator in his hand and it fucking blew, sending a shockwave – and the door – out across the lawn.

Bullets were flying before they were even in; Mickey could hear them whizzing their way through the breach, and his chest was rising and falling with so much effort that he no longer knew if he was from fear or excitement.

“Go!” he screamed, pointing haphazardly towards the hole in the wall, and the first wave of their men rushed the entrance in answering, only a couple of them going down amongst the debris before Colin and Iggy stood, leading the next group through, and Mickey watched them both intently as they went.

Mickey pulled up the rear, because he had a better chance that way – had a better chance of getting to Ian.

_Ian._

Ian was in here somewhere.

That was all Mickey needed to know as his body began to push forward, stepping over the remnants of the wall that had crumbled around the doorway, dust and smoke still clouding his vision, and all he could see were black shapes amongst the haze.

Mickey darted his gun back and forth, trying to maneuver himself towards the elevator Toyov had mentioned, his body bouncing off of others as he went.

“Mickey!” Colin screamed suddenly, and Mickey whirled at the panic in his voice, just in time to see a gun come up to the side of his own head, but he ducked, grabbing its muzzle with his left hand and shoving it hard towards the ceiling, allowing enough space for his Uzi to come up between them and blast a wave of bullets through the guy’s chest – right through his vest.

The man went down like his legs were made of jelly, and Mickey turned, trying to find Colin amongst the haze to thank him – to acknowledge him – but he couldn’t find him, and Mickey knew he had already headed down the hall for the staircase that would take him up to Okulov.

Mickey was going in the other direction.

Shuffling between the fighting bodies, Mickey spotted the glass elevator across the room and went towards it – the hope in his chest beginning to glow brighter – and he was almost at the doors when he fell forward suddenly without meaning to, something hitting him in the ribs like a fucking freight train, the impact so strong that it knocked the air out of him completely and it sent him to his knees.

“Boss!” a random voice yelled, and there was another flurry of gunshots, but Mickey no longer knew what the fuck was going on.

“Did I get shot!?” he spat, to nobody at all, and he could hear the annoyance in his own voice as he reached his hand around absently to his back and pressed it against the sore spot as he tried to breathe.

There was a hole in his vest, but no blood.

Thank fuck.

“Go Mickey!” Iggy yelled then, and Mickey glanced up in time to see his brother on a landing above him, the sole of his boot coming up to connect with a Russian body before Iggy grabbed him by the vest and flipped him over the railing, the body landing with a ridiculous crack against the marble beside Mickey as blood started to pool out from his skull.

Mickey winced as he stood – the pain in his ribs nearly unbearable – but he knew they weren’t broken as he hit the button for the elevator, turning his back to it so he could eye the fucking madness around him; bodies were everywhere – just black mounds piled on top of each other – and it didn’t altogether thrill him when he saw that quite a few of them were their own; but he couldn’t focus on that now, he had to go.

Ian was waiting.

The elevator dinged open behind him and Mickey backed in, keeping the muzzle of his Uzi facing out into the room before the glass doors closed, and he was descending.

The basement was fucking grim compared to the rest of the house, and as the glass doors opened to the cold, grey cement, Mickey was almost surprised there weren’t a hundred men just standing there waiting to blast him off the face of the earth; but Toyov had ensured them that they wouldn’t be protecting Ian –they’d be upstairs, where Vasily was.

Mickey raised his gun anyways, stepping slowly out of the elevator, his back pressed against the wall beside him as he peered his head out in quick, darting motions, eyeing the hall to his left, then to his right; he could hear voices and footsteps down the corridor on his left, so he stepped out, as ready as he’d ever be.

A man came jogging around the corner then – clearly in a hurry to get upstairs to help – but Mickey pulled the trigger before the guy even had the chance to notice him, and there was a single hole between his eyes before he hit the floor.

Someone yelled something in Russian beyond the corner at the sound of his Uzi and a falling body, and Mickey understood enough to know what, _Go!_ sounded like; so he planted himself firmly against the wall as two others came charging around the end of the hallway then, guns up and ready.

Mickey fired first, but took another bullet to the chest anyways, his breath leaving his lungs once more as another one just missed his head, lodging itself in the cement behind him just as Mickey got a second volley off, the semi-automatic in his hands firing off God knows how many bullets in a single second; he barely even aimed, just watched them fall to the ground as a red mist covered the grey walls behind them.

It was all so goddamn violent, but Mickey had been raised in this life, and he honestly didn’t think he cared – didn’t know if he’d _ever_ care, not when it came to Ian.

_Ian._

Mickey could barely wait anymore; he didn’t _want_ to wait – didn’t want to take it slow or be careful; his finger itched constantly against the trigger, his heart hammering in his chest as sweat poured from his brow, and Ian had to be close.

“Ian!?” he yelled, knowing he was down here _somewhere_ , and winced a little as a loud volley of bullets echoed suddenly from somewhere above him, the sound of Iggy’s Uzi breaking the static popping of Glocks and the steady rapid-fire of the Russian AK’s.

Mickey strained to hear over the muffled noise, but he was sure no voices came back to him in the emptiness, so he went forward, faster than he knew he should.

The hallway took a sharp turn to the right ahead of him, so he slowed at the juncture, risking a quick glance around the corner; a burst of bullets hit the cement beside his head then – pieces breaking off into dust around him – and he withdrew himself back around alongside the wall, eyes squinting against the flying chunks.

“Shit, shit,” he hissed, but felt his chest squeeze with that glimmer of hope; they were protecting something down that hallway, and Mickey knew there was only one thing in this house that was worth protecting…

Pulling his phone out of his back pocket out of nothing more than idiotic ingenuity, Mickey turned his camera on and pointed it down the hallway in an instant, snapping a photo before another round of bullets nearly took his fucking hand off.

Mickey glanced at the screen; there was only one man left at the end of the corridor, an AK wrapped firmly in his hands; beside him was a locked door, and Mickey felt his breath catch in his throat.

“Fuck it,” he mumbled, unhooking the grenade Fergal had given him as a joke from his vest and pulling the pin without even thinking about it, thankful as fuck that neither of the two bullets that had found his vest had found that goddamn explosive.

“Ian!” he yelled, and hoped he would hear him. “Get away from the door!”

Tossing it – timing his throw perfectly – Mickey turned away, covering his ears before it exploded at the far end of the hallway, not even hitting the floor before a cloud of dust and blood came flying outwards.

Mickey’s ears started to fucking ring from the reverberation, and he stood – utterly dazed for a second as he moved his jaw to try and get his ears to function again – before he all of a sudden remembered.

_Ian._

Turning immediately, Mickey lifted his Uzi back into place as he jogged down the hall, stepping over bits and pieces of random Russian before reaching the door, which was still intact – thank fuck.

“Ian?” he called again, pounding his fist against the steel. “Ian are you in there?”

There was nothing – no reply – and Mickey had to try very fucking hard to keep his heart from starting to break before he knew anything for sure.

“Ian, I’m going to shoot the locks off the door so, get into a corner or something!”

Raising the muzzle of his gun, Mickey waited one more second for a reply, but when there wasn’t one, he closed his eyes and let ‘er rip, the sharp sound of metal ting-ing out around him until the door gave way, and broke open.

“Ian!?” Mickey went forward at once – like his legs couldn’t carry him fast enough – but he could barely see anything beyond the light that was seeping in behind him.

Mickey glanced around, his eyes squinting against the dark, and caught sight of a bulb on the ceiling then and whirled, looking around the door for a switch, and when he didn’t see one, he hurried back out into the hallway, finally finding it there on the outside of the frame.

Of course.

Flipping it on, Mickey stepped back into the room, the sudden light burning his eyes at the same time the fear burned its way throughout all that he was.

There was a mattress on the floor in the corner with blood on it – a small pillow with the same red stains propped up against the wall – and Mickey felt bile rising up into his throat as rage began to eat its way through his nerves like fucking maggots; but when he went to turn away from the scene laid out before him, Mickey caught sight of the chair – saw the fresh blood on the floor beside it – and the rage gave way to that heartbreak that was slowly becoming more real.

But Ian wasn’t there; he had to be fucking _somewhere_ , because Mickey refused to believe that Ian could be… _dead_.

Mickey turned on a dime, needing nothing more than to get that fucking Russian between his hands and ask him where the fuck Ian was – ask him what the _fuck_ he had done to him – but he stopped suddenly, the blue fabric of their Cub’s cap catching his eyes as it sat on a metal table covered in knives.

Grabbing it, Mickey felt the coolness of it between his fingers – felt his face tremble the smallest bit as his strength started to wane – when suddenly the speaker in his earpiece hissed to life, and Colin’s voice came through, like the Angel of Death.

“Mickey?” he said, and Mickey knew in an instant – as soon as his name left his brother’s lips – that Ian was still alive, but that it wasn’t looking good; he knew it without Colin even having to say it – he knew it from nothing more than the tone of his voice.

“Where is he?” Mickey hissed, the disdain evident in his words as he strode directly from the room, back towards the elevator.

He didn’t mean Ian – he meant Okulov – but Colin clearly knew that, too.

“Main entrance,” Colin sighed. “He has Ian.”

Mickey felt his veins turn to ice as his face hardened, and he slipped the cap backwards onto his head, ensuring his hands were completely free so he could hold his gun and do whatever the fuck he knew he was about to.

Mickey stepped off the elevator out into the bright lights of the marble foyer, the white stone making the place fucking glow like the pearly goddamn gates.

Ian was on the floor at Okulov’s feet, a gun pressed hard against his temple; his face was swollen and bruised, and there was blood all over the white button-down shirt he was wearing.

Absolute rage poured into Mickey’s entire being then as he took in the state of him, but despite it, Mickey also felt his heart skip a beat, and it nearly thrummed right out of his chest when Ian looked up then and saw him, a smile pulling up the corners of his mouth that Mickey immediately wanted to kiss, to touch, to taste, to look at for every fucking second for the rest of his entire life, however long that might be.

“I knew you’d come,” Ian sighed then, and before the words were even out of his mouth, Okulov pulled the gun back, smashing the butt of it hard against Ian’s head.

Mickey raised his Uzi at once out of reflex and went forward, the Russian’s head in his sights and his finger about to lay delicately into the trigger, but not before Colin stepped in front of him.

“Don’t!” he spat, and Mickey was gritting his teeth so hard to keep from disobeying that he could have sworn he broke a couple.

There were still a few Russian security guards left alive, their bodies standing ready and weary behind Okulov; if Mickey shot him, he and his brothers were in for it, he knew; but he still wanted to do it…

Mickey strolled further into the room then, glancing towards the foot of the stairs at his right; Iggy was there, too, and as Colin strolled over to stand beside their brother, Mickey noticed that they were both covered in random sprays of blood – chests still heaving – and despite everything, Mickey breathed a sigh of relief.

A few of their own heavyweights were scattered at random intervals up the grand staircase – a few more still standing back in the shadows of the hallways – just as ready and weary as the Russians; but Mickey saw that there weren’t a whole fucking Hell of a lot of them left.

“Mikhailo,” Okulov said then, pulling Mickey’s attention back towards him as his brown, Russian eyes glanced downwards at Ian – his look becoming overly _fond_ – and Mickey was going to put a bullet in his skull in a minute.

Firefight be damned.

“Whatta you want?” Mickey asked, and despite how hard he tried, his gaze kept drifting to Ian – to the bruises on his face; his swollen lips; his dark, tired eyes – and he wanted more than anything to hold him.

“I want you to let me kill him.”

Mickey swallowed the hate, the bile, and the fear that rose up within him.

“You kill him,” Colin spat, “and we kill you.”

Mickey glanced at his brother as those words left his lips, and he felt his trust for him return tenfold as he saw that Colin’s blue eyes were just as fierce and unwavering as Mickey knew his own were.

“I imagine that’s going to happen anyways, but,” Okulov stopped, glancing around at his own men then before eyeing theirs. “Maybe not. Seems like it may be a pretty fair fight.”

Mickey bit his tongue, his eyes darting automatically to Ian to keep himself in check – to keep his resentment from roiling over the walls he had built to keep emotion out of business.

Ian was just staring at him, this soft look on his face as if he somehow knew all of Mickey’s secrets – as if he knew everything Mickey had done to get them here – and Mickey felt himself smile against his will, like his body just wanted to give Ian _something_ without his mind even having a choice.

They weren’t as fucked as Ian thought they were – as Okulov thought they were – and Mickey refocused his attention on the Russian, knowing he still had one more hand to play, and that it was time.

“Purple?” Mickey questioned then, causing Okulov to eye him with furrowed brows, and he saw his brothers turn towards him out of his peripherals – saw Ian’s face shift a little at the knowing of what it meant.

“Okay,” Colin said in answering, nodding, and that was all it took.

Mickey shifted his hand subtly, pressing the speaker on his wrist and holding it down for longer than was necessary, creating a long burst of static, and within a second, the glass of the front door blew out as a bullet came cascading through, finding its way into the head of one of the Russian’s behind Okulov.

Sure, Fergal could have shot Vasily instead, but he was Mickey’s.

Okulov shifted away from the sudden melee as Ian bent forward on the floor, placing his hands over his ears and closing his eyes as if not wanting to watch what was about to happen as glass burst apart above him like fireworks.

Mickey went towards him at once, taking the split second the Russian turned away from Ian to go forward, falling to his knees and reaching out for Ian’s arm and pulling him into his body hard as bullets began to fly around them.

“Ian!” Mickey called over the loud bursts of shots, feeling Ian’s warmth under his hands as if it were the sun itself, and Ian’s eyes flew open immediately – as if he had suddenly heard music in an endless silence – and those eyes were on Mickey in an instant.

“Mickey,” Ian sighed, so fucking quietly that it must have been some sort of miracle that Mickey even heard him over the chaos.

“Come here!” Mickey yelled, grabbing onto his arm once more and scrambling backwards, trying to pull Ian to the space behind the stairs; but Okulov was there suddenly, his hand reaching out as his gun went straight to Ian’s head, and Mickey was about to fucking scream, but another shot rang out then instead, and a final section of glass burst apart as another one of Fergal’s bullets found its way into Okulov’s hand, causing him to drop the gun, and suddenly, just like that, everything went ominously quiet, the last few echoes of gunshots echoing out from somewhere beyond the long hallway, until there was no longer anything but breath.

Mickey glanced around; there was nobody around him but Ian and Okulov, who knelt on the ground across from them, reaching absently for his gun, but not before Mickey got to it first.

“Not a fuckin’ chance,” he spat, dragging it across the floor towards himself as his eyes returned nervously to the hallways, searching for his brothers. “Colin!?” he called, panic starting to return. “Iggy!?”

“Here, Mick,” they both said in unison, their limping bodies appearing then from the far end of one of the corridors, the last few remaining heavyweights by their sides.

“Fuck,” Mickey sighed, nothing but relief in his voice, and suddenly – just like that – it was over.

Mickey turned, looking immediately at Ian who was sitting beside him, and when their eyes met, it was as if nothing and everything had happened all at once, and Mickey felt the warmth in his chest spreading outwards into every cell – every nerve – that he had; and for just a second, he didn’t think he could be happier than he was in that moment.

“Hey, you,” he whispered, setting his Uzi down so he could put his hand on Ian’s face, gently, and trace the bruises and the scratches that were still seeping blood as his own breath came back hot off Ian’s chin, and when he caught a glimpse of the ring he still had on his own finger, he knew there were definitely going to be moments that were happier than this.

“Hi,” Ian whispered back, his eyes shifting up to the cap on Mickey’s head, and the smile that spread across his face then was everything Mickey had held onto – but he didn’t have to hold on anymore.

Leaning forward, Mickey pressed his lips to Ian’s – carefully, so as not to hurt him – tasting the blood that was dried there, and all he could think about was that it was the same taste that had been on Ian’s lips the first time they had ever kissed, and something about that just seemed…right.

“Mickey?” Colin said then, tearing him away from his adoration, and he was a little annoyed as he pulled back; but his attention was quickly refocused when he saw his brother aiming a gun at Okulov, who was still kneeling on the marble, fucked up hand in his lap, fucked up smile on his face.

All the rage that had disappeared when he had looked into Ian’s eyes – when he had kissed him – came back with a vengeance, and Mickey stood at once, pulling his Glock from his belt, taking two steps forward, and…

“Wait!” Ian cried then, and as always – if Ian asked – Mickey stopped at once.

“What?” He turned, glancing at his fiancé on the floor.

“Let me do it.”

Mickey felt his brows furrow, his face fall a little as his chest tightened.

“No Ian, you’ve already been through enough, you don’t…”

“It has to be me, Mick.” Ian stood then, his face wincing in pain as he stumbled a little, and Mickey was beside him at once, holding him up.

“Hey, you okay?” he asked, hand fluttering absently over his head in worry, and that’s when he saw the massive wound behind Ian’s ear – just a hole where his initials had once been.

Mickey saw nothing anymore beyond a sea of red.

“You motherfucker,” he hissed, letting go of Ian immediately and striding across the room, pushing Okulov back onto the floor, kneeling down onto his chest and punching him once, twice, three times in the face, his head bouncing off the stone beneath him as if it were a fucking ball, and Mickey was going to watch his face break apart.

“Mickey,” Colin barked, but Mickey was done listening.

Three more punches flew from his clenched fist, and Okulov’s face was becoming nothing more than a bloody mess, when suddenly there was a hand on his shoulder, and Mickey didn’t have to look to know whose it was.

He would always know that touch.

“Mickey,” Ian sighed then, so quiet and tired that Mickey actually stopped, his fist hovering in the air as he realized absently that the life that he now held in his hands had never actually been his to claim in the first place – it had always been Ian’s.

“I know,” Mickey spat, leaning over to spit on the Russian’s chest. “I know, Ian. He’s all yours.”

Mickey pushed himself up then, stepping back towards the stairs before handing Ian his Glock, their fingers brushing together as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and Mickey felt him like lightning on his skin.

Ian smiled at him before turning, and Mickey watched as the man he loved strolled casually forward, raising the gun and aiming it directly between Okulov’s eyes.

“Wrong gun,” someone said then, and they all turned at the abrupt sound of the voice as it echoed awkwardly in the large, empty room.

Toyov was standing at the top of the stairs, the small hint of a smile on his lips as he eyed Okulov, bleeding out on the floor.

“What?” Mickey spat, and considered shooting him just for the fucking sake of it.

“For Ian, I mean.” Toyov shrugged, strolling straight down the stairs as if he owned the place, and Mickey watched him warily as he walked directly up to Ian, who was looking back at the young Russian with the most deadpan look.

“What?”

“Here.” Toyov reached inside his jacket then, and Mickey went forward out of instinct, but stopped as Toyov pulled a gun out by the muzzle, setting it in Ian’s hand. “You said you were going to use it to kill my boss so, use it to kill my boss.”

“You fuck,” Okulov spat then in Russian, eyeing his former henchman with a look of utter disdain. “They’ll find you one day you know, and burn you alive.”

Toyov just shrugged again, and Mickey thought maybe he was alright.

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

With that, he stepped back, and Ian turned, holding Mickey’s Glock back out for him in the brilliant white light, and Mickey thought he looked like a fucking fire-haired angel that had just fought his way up through the pits of Hell.

There would never be anyone more beautiful.

Stepping towards him – his heart so full of love as he looked into those green eyes – Mickey reached out for the gun, but just as he took it, a shot rang out from somewhere to his right, and Ian’s body shifted just a little as his smile fell just a hair, and Mickey’s heart stopped fucking beating entirely.

~

“I had a dream you were coming,” Ian whispered, the edges of his vision going blurry as everything began to close in around him; he was looking up at Mickey, who was gazing back down at him with a look Ian didn’t like much, and Ian thought maybe Mickey was crying, despite the small smile that tilted up his lips at his words.

“You did, huh?” Mickey lifted a hand then to wipe at his own face, and Ian could see that it was all red, which didn’t seem right to him; but he saw his ring there, too, and _that_ seemed right…

“Yea.” Ian smiled back up at him, wanting to make Mickey feel as warm as he was starting to feel. “You killed everyone for me.”

Mickey’s eyebrows furrowed a little in curiosity, and the way they danced only made Ian’s smile widen, and he wanted to kiss him on the little space of skin between them.

“Who’d I kill?” Mickey asked, but Ian didn’t hear him really, his eyelids were beginning to get heavy, heavy. “Hey, _hey! IAN!_ ”

There was a slap on Ian’s face then, and he was a little annoyed by it, so he forced his eyes open again.

“Ow,” Ian frowned, and Mickey actually laughed a little, but it sounded ragged as his breath hitched – teeth showing white in the back of the Range Rover – and more tears fell from his eyes. “Why you cryin’, baby?” Ian tried to raise a hand, but it didn’t seem to want to move.

“I’m not cryin’.”

Ian smiled again – because he liked when Mickey pretended to be tough – but his face was starting to feel just as heavy as his eyelids, and it was a struggle.

“I’m tired, baby…”

“Who’d I kill for you, huh?” Mickey asked again, his voice a little louder, and Ian wondered why Mickey was trying so hard to keep him awake when he just wanted to sleep.

“Sirko,” Ian admitted, and felt his grin fall just a little, even though he was sure he was happy as he remembered the image of Mickey in the cemetery, so excited his plan to get Ian back was almost through. “And umm…” Ian had to think for a moment, but he couldn’t recall the other name, which was weird, ‘cause for some reason he knew he hated that fucking name.

“Maguire?” A voice came suddenly, and it wasn’t Mickey’s; it had an Irish lilt, which made Ian feel mad maybe, but he was just too tired to remember why.

“Yea,” he agreed instead, glancing up at the roof of the car for a brief moment, and all of a sudden Ian wanted nothing more than to rest his eyes for a bit, so he closed them…

“IAN!” Mickey sounded like he was hurt – was in pain.

_Why is Mickey in pain?_

Ian reopened his eyes – his head lulling to the side harder than he thought it should – and looked at Mickey.

“What’s wrong, baby?” he whispered, trying once more to reach his arm out, but it still wasn’t fucking working.

 _Am I hurt_?

“I thought you’d left me again,” Mickey replied, the words coming out like a whimper as his outstretched arms went suddenly bone-straight, pressing that bunched up sweater even harder into Ian’s side, which was weird because he couldn’t feel the pain anymore.

_Yes, you’re hurt, remember?_

“I’d never leave you…”

“Did I kill anyone else?” Mickey asked then, and Ian smiled at those eyes he loved – at least he thought he smiled – because who _wouldn’t_ Mickey kill for him?

“Mmm, yea.” Ian was so tired. “Maguire. Shea Sirko.” The names were suddenly all there again. “Michael Sirko, and…”

_Everyone_.

“And who, Ian?” Mickey’s voice was becoming more frantic, and tears were falling faster down his cheeks. “Just talk to me for a bit, Ian, please.”

Ian liked the sound of that voice, even though it was all wrong; he didn’t want to talk anymore though, he wanted Mickey to keep talking instead so he could just listen to him like ASMR and drift off to sleep to his favourite sound…

“Bad guys,” Ian answered anyways – because Mickey was asking him to. “A lot of them.”

“I’d say,” the Irish voice came again, and Ian shifted his eyes towards the passenger seat, but he didn’t have the strength or the willpower to lift his head up and look at who was speaking.

“Fergal?” he questioned, because he thought he knew that voice now, and Ian’s head fell to the side again so he could look back up at Mickey – _his_ Mickey – and he remembered absently that he hadn’t really wanted to know if any of his dream had actually been true, because that would be impossible; but if he _did_ want to know, maybe he’d mostly want to know about one part in particular…

“Yea baby, that’s Fergal…” Mickey lifted his red hand again to wipe his face with the back of it once more.

“Dick,” Ian huffed in insult, and he actually felt like he was fucking beaming as a laughing sob escaped Mickey’s chest.

That laugh, Ian could also fall asleep to that laugh…

“Yea,” Mickey sighed, his voice trembling in his throat like he was falling apart. “Yea he is.”

“Careful,” the Irish voice warned, but it wasn’t angry, it was kinda nice…

“You slept with him,” Ian said then, and closed his eyes again. “In my dream….”

Ian thought maybe he was finally done talking now, because there was no more anger at that memory inside his mind; he was okay with it – he was okay with everything they had done, because Mickey was here now, holding him, touching him, talking to him.

“No I didn’t,” Mickey said suddenly, and if Ian was going to open his eyes for anything ever again, it would be that.

So he did.

“Hmm?”

“I didn’t sleep with Fergal,” Mickey repeated, and he turned his head away suddenly, glancing towards the Irish voice.

_No_ , Ian wanted to say, _don’t look away from me…_

“Come fucking hold this!” Mickey spat – full of anger and sadness – and Ian watched his face; he seemed serious now, upset.

_Why is Mickey upset?_

“Don’t be angry,” Ian whispered, and Mickey swung his head back at the sound of his voice.

“Hey, I’m not angry.” Mickey glanced up as a man appeared suddenly – some man Ian thought was maybe Fergal Maguire – and knelt beside Mickey, gripping onto the sweater that was pressed to his side so that Mickey could finally let go.

“Are you leaving?” Ian asked, a sudden wave of panic ebbing throughout him, and he must be thirsty, he thought, because the sound stuck in his throat.

“What!?” Mickey hissed, coming forward on his knees then until he was right beside Ian’s head, and Ian glanced up at him, sad. “No,” he whispered. “No baby, I’m not leaving you.”

Mickey reached a hand out, cupping Ian’s face so he could trace his thumb along Ian’s cheek, and Ian wasn’t sad anymore; Mickey’s hand felt like happiness.

“Good. You promised you wouldn’t.”

A little smile pulled up Mickey’s lips at that, and even though they quivered a bit, the sight set Ian’s insides on fire.

“Yea, I did.”

Ian caught sight of Mickey’s ring again then as his hand drifted closer to Ian’s eyes, and when he saw it, Ian had the distinct feeling that there was something he had been meaning to ask…

_What was I supposed to ask?_

“My ring,” he spat then, as if his mouth knew even though his mind didn’t. “Did you find my ring?”

Mickey’s brows furrowed a little as he looked down at him, and Ian saw the way his gaze flitted to Ian’s bare left finger before a look of anger and sadness crossed his face again.

_No, don’t be angry, baby. Don’t be sad._

“I didn’t have time to look,” Mickey answered, his voice soft, and maybe a little sorry. “I didn’t know where Okulov put it and…”

Ian smiled then – he felt it this time – and Mickey stopped talking when he saw it.

“What are you smiling at?” Mickey’s own grin returned, if only a ghost of what Ian knew it could be, and Ian thought he could fall asleep looking at that grin, too.

“I left it with the phones,” Ian admitted finally, pretty sure that was true, even though he was no longer certain.

“You did?” Mickey sounded surprised, which Ian liked; he liked surprising Mickey sometimes.

“Rolled under the seat…”

Mickey’s true smile appeared for just a split second then, his teeth showing in the passing streetlights before it disappeared and he leaned over, placing his lips on Ian’s forehead, his tears falling down onto Ian’s face.

Ian could feel them – little, wet, cool pinpricks of lightning on his skin.

“I did kill everyone,” Mickey whispered then, his lips never leaving Ian’s forehead, and Ian liked the warmth of his breath on him. “Well, mostly I got everyone else to do the killing for me…”

“You’ve always been the smart one.” Ian tried to be funny, but it must not have worked because he felt more tears on his face – thought he felt Mickey’s breath tremble.

“But he definitely didn’t shag me,” the Irish voice added then, and Ian felt Mickey grin a little again, which made him grin, too.

_Keep smiling, baby._

“You didn’t?” Ian felt relief as he eyed Mickey hovering above him, or maybe it was just the tiredness returning to his bones…

“Of course not.” Mickey’s lips tickled his forehead.

“I asked him to,” Fergal added. “He agreed but, last minute, I changed my mind.”

Ian tried to shift his eyes down to the voice, but all of Mickey was there in front of him, blocking his view, and that was okay.

“You agreed?” Ian asked, but he wasn’t so mad.

Mickey shook his head a little, but his lips hadn’t moved from Ian’s skin – his hands hadn’t stopped cradling and patting his face.

“I would have done worse things. Just…just don’t leave me.”

_Why would I leave you?_

“Of course you would…”

“I love you, Ian,” Mickey said then, moving his head down a couple inches so his face was suddenly floating right there in front of Ian’s, and all Ian could see were blue skies, blue waters, blue suits, blue hats, blue eyes that were like glass, and he wanted suddenly to lean against them.

So Ian lifted his head the smallest bit, pushing his forehead into Mickey’s with all the strength he could muster – giving him all that he had left as Mickey’s eyes closed, and then his own followed.

“I love you, too. But I think I’m gunna have a nap now, baby…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don’t cry, babies!  
> ONE CHAPTER LEFT!
> 
> -Yes, the previous chapter was only Ian's dream!(As I said, it probably would have made a bit more sense if I could have made aalllll of it one chapter!)  
> -Yes, MOST of it actually came to pass, EXCEPT for Mickey sleeping with Fergal. My reasoning behind this will be explained in THE FINAL CHAPTER!  
> SO NO, MICKEY DID NOT SLEEP WITH FERGAL!
> 
> OMG.  
> I can't believe this is almost the end.  
> See you all so soon!  
> I love you so much!


	18. The Lighthouse Keeper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life is what we make it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, thank you. That is literally all I can think of to say. This journey, this story, and all of you have kept me sane in 2020. You will never know the gratitude I feel.  
> Secondly, this chapter is over 30,000 words. My longest ever by a LOT. Take your time.

Mickey turned Ian’s ring around and around in his fingers, watching the way the early morning light from the windows glinted off the gold; the matte finish made it look soft somehow, so out of nothing more than fondness and curiosity, Mickey brought it up to his mouth, placing the cool metal against his lips, feeling it against his skin as if it were Ian himself as his eyes fell closed. 

The constant sound of people moving in and out of the room around him was getting to be too much, and he wished absently that they would all just leave him alone – would leave him to his thoughts and his memories; but they needed to be there, and he knew it.

When it came to Ian, memories were always something Mickey had assumed he would want to hold onto with everything he had; he had never once thought that in all the time that had passed, that there would be memories of Ian in his mind that he would want to get rid of; but _these_ ones he no longer wanted.

… _I think I’m gunna take a nap now, baby…_

Mickey squeezed his eyes harder shut to keep the tears from forming; he was sick of crying, and besides, today wasn’t a day for crying.

Today was a day for new beginnings.

“So how long will it take?” Mickey asked then, sniffing loudly amongst the hushed shuffling of bodies before finally turning away from the windows, sliding Ian’s ring back into the front pocket of his jeans where it had been every single day for eight days straight.

“Depends.” Doctor Nicholls shrugged, eyeing the monitor that Mickey hadn’t taken his eyes off of for the first forty-eight hours, watching Ian’s heartbeat blip its way across the screen as if his own would surely stop beating if that godforsaken beeping did.

“Give me a fuckin’ ballpark, at least,” Mickey spat, glancing at Ian; his green eyes were still closed to the world as his chest rose and fell of its own volition, and the beard growth on his chin was becoming thick enough that Mickey’s fingers could actually grip it a bit as he rubbed Ian’s jaw in quiet moments, the freckles on his skin standing out even more than usual from the blood loss.

Mickey had referred to that skin as porcelain more than once in the past – his porcelain boy – but Mickey realized fairly quickly that he hadn’t even known what _pale_ was until Ian had been lifted out of the backseat of the Range Rover and placed onto a gurney, his entire body nearly blending into the white floors and white tiles as they wheeled him through the hospital towards the operating room to pull a slug from his stomach that had – miraculously – barely clipped his intestines…

“Usually full sedation wears off within forty-five minutes,” Nicholls added then, pulling Mickey from his waking nightmare as he scribbled something down onto a clipboard. “But Mr. Gallagher’s shown remarkable progress so it may be sooner than that.”

Mickey hoped so, because he didn’t want to wait anymore; he had spent his entire life waiting for Ian Gallagher, but the last eight days had been the longest, hardest, worst part of all twenty-six years.

A steady breath escaped Mickey’s lips then as he stepped closer to the end of the bed, eyeing the purple bruises under Ian’s eyes – purple bruises he had touched more than once in the past week, waiting until there was nobody around in the middle of the night – in the middle of the day – before reaching up and thumbing the soft skin, whispering things in the quiet space between them that Mickey didn’t think he would ever say out loud again.

“And he won’t be fuckin’ brain dead or anything right?” Mickey hissed, not for the first time, and held his breath even though he had heard the answer a hundred times.

Dr. Nicholls eyed him, a small smile tugging up the corner of his lips that looked more like annoyed amusement than actual kindness.

“Ten days is usually the maximum we try and keep patients under sedation, it usually isn’t until after that time we begin to worry about cognitive decline.”

“Good.” Mickey felt his heart stutter as he watched the nurses unhook random tubes and whatnots, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth and hoping that the eight days Ian had been under wouldn’t affect the person he had been, or the person he was. Mickey didn’t hope this for his own sake though, he hoped it for Ian’s – because no matter what version of Ian Gallagher opened his eyes in the next forty-five minutes, Mickey thought he would love him anyways.

That he always would.

~

There was light seeping in through the darkness in front of him, but Ian didn’t actually remember falling asleep; his eyelids were heavy, and he tried to open them, but apparently they didn’t want to work right now, so he let them rest for a while instead, trying to remember just when Mickey had taken him to bed…

Ian was lying down, he knew that much – or maybe he was sitting up a little bit. Had Mickey carried him up the stairs at some point and wrapped him in blankets? Propped him up against the headboard? That was something Mickey would do, because he loved him; Ian knew that much, too…

Had he drank too much? Ian didn’t remember drinking; he remembered loud noises though…

A beeping sound was echoing steadily out around him, and Ian thought maybe it was the alarm on Mickey’s phone, so he tried to open his eyes again – needing to tell Mickey that it was time to wake up. This time, his lids decided to cooperate, and the sudden light of day broke into his world so unexpectedly then that he had to squint against the brightness, the thrumming in his head returning all at once.

There was a reason his head was hurting, Ian knew it, but he couldn’t quite grasp onto the memory yet; so he turned his head a little, everything around him slowly coming into focus as he came back to life.

Mickey was sitting beside him on his left, his elbows up on the bed as his head hung down, something shiny flipping in his fingers as he twirled it around and around. Ian noticed almost immediately that he was wearing his black crewneck sweater that Ian had had hidden away for weeks, and he was about to reach out and touch it – just to be sure of him – when he realized suddenly that this wasn’t their bedroom at all – this wasn’t their home on South Side…

Ian’s heart began to beat faster at both the confusion and the sight of Mickey, and suddenly the beeping noise picked up, too. Mickey raised his head at the sound, those beautiful blue eyes finding Ian’s at once, as if there honestly wasn’t another thing in the world worth looking at.

“Ian?” Mickey whispered, his voice so soft that Ian was at once catapulted backwards in time, the sudden image of Mickey leaning over top of him in the back of the Range Rover – pressing something into his stomach to keep him from bleeding out – flashing abruptly in his mind, and all at once, Ian remembered everything.

Someone had shot him; Mickey had carried him to the car; Mickey had kept him alive, as he always did.

Ian tore his eyes away from him for just a moment, glancing around the large, empty room; there were monitors beside him blinking and making low noises; there was an ID tag on his wrist; the city stood tall and shining outside the windows beside them as the cool temperature of the room seeped in through his thin white gown.

The hospital – he must be at the hospital.

Turning back to Mickey, Ian felt his heart squeeze at nothing more than the closeness of him, and he tried to open his mouth to speak, but nothing would come out; it was so goddamn dry in there that he felt like he might choke.

“Here, sweetie,” a voice said then, and a woman came into view, her floral-patterned scrubs such a pleasant sight amongst Ian’s dark memories that he tried to smile as she handed him a plastic cup full of water, a straw dangling awkwardly from the rim.

A straw? Ian wondered absently if he was paralyzed or something, but his arms came up then when he wanted them to, taking the cup into his hands and sipping the liquid down as if he hadn’t had a drink in weeks.

Fuck, maybe he hadn’t.

“Hey,” Mickey said then, his voice still soft and full of worry as he shoved whatever it was he had been twirling around in his fingers back into his pocket, his hands coming out and reaching towards Ian as if he wanted nothing more than to touch him; but he stopped short, like he was afraid of hurting him with nothing more than the graze of his fingers.

Ian eyed him, remembering the way Mickey’s face had looked the last time he’d seen it – the way his laugh had been one of the final things he had wanted to hold onto – and fuck if he wasn’t the most beautiful thing Ian had ever seen in his life.

“Hi,” Ian whispered back, finally, his voice so hoarse that he was sure it must have been a while since he had spoken.

Mickey smiled at the sound, but it wasn’t everything Ian wanted it to be; there was still sadness behind it, and it was a far cry from the thing that would breathe life back into Ian’s soul.

“How do you feel?”

“Who are you?” Ian asked then, and knew it was definitely a shitty thing to do, but the payoff was going to be worth it.

Mickey’s face fell like he was watching Ian die in front of him all over again, and his eyebrows pulled together so far in heartbreak that Ian at once wanted to apologize and lean forward, kiss every inch of his skin as if he’d never be able to do it again.

“Just fuckin’ with you,” Ian said instead, and felt his own face nearly split in two as Mickey’s teeth showed suddenly in the sunlight, a smile illuminating his features that was so genuine and wide that Ian was sure it instantly healed every part of him that had ever been broken.

“You fuckin’ dick,” Mickey huffed, but he was laughing, tears escaping his eyes as he fell apart in all the best ways, tattooed knuckles coming up to rest against his cheek as he turned his face away, hiding it from view.

The sight made Ian’s soul warm, and he reached out, setting his water down on the table beside him before laying his palm gently against the back of Mickey’s head, tracing his thumb back and forth, back and forth across his ear, and it wasn’t lost on him the way Mickey felt like life itself.

“Look at me,” Ian whispered, and probably would have cried, too, if he wasn’t so fucking happy.

Mickey sniffed once, then turned his face back; his eyes were so red and vulnerable – so unlike Mickey Milkovich – that Ian couldn’t help the grin that returned against his will.

“I swear to God, Ian, I…” Mickey chewed his lip, shaking his head as he looked away once more; Ian knew he wanted to say more, but just didn’t have the words.

Dragging his hand down Mickey’s face, Ian let his thumb pull Mickey’s bottom lip down just a little – just so he could feel him before letting go. Ian _wanted_ him to say more, but then again, a part of him didn’t want to hear it – a part of him didn’t want to hear about Mickey’s hurt, because Ian thought it had probably been even more unbearable than his own.

Ian had clearly gotten to sleep through the worst of it, but Mickey – Mickey had been awake.

“How long was I asleep?” Ian queried instead, changing the subject as he leaned back a little, the pain inside of him beginning to creep its way up his walls and become noticeable.

“Eight days.”

Ian nodded, thankful it wasn’t longer, even though the idea of having lost an entire week of his life was weird and foreign.

“So what day is it?”

“Saturday, the 20th.”

“June?”

Mickey smiled a little.

“Yea, dumbass. June.”

Ian grinned at that, but it twisted into a grimace as the pain increased.

“You hurtin’, hunny?” the nurse asked then, and Ian had forgotten she was even there, off in the corner taking notes.

“Yea.” Ian tried to push himself up a tiny bit, but clenched his teeth when a jolt shot through him at the movement, a throbbing ache gripping the left side of his belly where the bullet had entered.

As his jaw clenched in reaction, Ian felt a sting behind his ear, and the pain inside his guts was immediately forgotten then as he reached up, his heart breaking a little as he remembered, fingering the bandage over the empty space where Mickey’s initials used to be.

 _That_ hurt was greater than anything else.

“Can he get some fuckin’ morphine or somethin’?” Mickey barked, his hand finally reaching out and grabbing onto Ian’s without even realizing it as his blue eyes scanned Ian’s face, obviously seeing the heartache and misinterpreting it as agony.

“Hey,” Ian whispered, squeezing that hand and giving Mickey a look to try and calm him down a little. “It’s okay.”

Mickey just chewed his lip.

“Looking at this card Mr. Gallagher,” the nurse cut in then, ignoring Mickey’s outburst as she strolled over to his bed and handed him a laminated piece of paper. “What level would you say your pain is at?”

Ian glanced down at the card and almost laughed at the stupid little smiley faces that went from green to red, their faces going from happy to fucking miserable.

Gazing suddenly at Mickey – seeing the way his eyes had never once left his own face – Ian knew he definitely wasn’t miserable, but the pain was definitely there, and getting worse.

“About here.” Ian pointed to the face _next_ to miserable, feeling his own face contort as another wave of hurt crashed through him.

“Alright, let’s give you some relief.” She leaned over, pressing a few buttons on a little machine that Ian figured must release the morphine drip. “You can administer your own morphine with that little button there,” she said, pointing absently to a little hand-held device. “But only to a certain level so, don’t go crazy; but if the pain only gets worse, press the _call_ button and a nurse will be by.”

“Thanks.”

As soon as she turned and disappeared through the door, Mickey leaned over in his chair, grabbing the top of the morphine machine and pulling it closer to his face.

“Doesn’t seem that difficult,” he muttered, his finger inching towards the random array of buttons. “Want me to up the maximum dose? I’ll get you right fucked up…”

Ian started to laugh, his belly clenching in the best, worst way as his head fell back.

“Ow, stop,” he chuckled, reaching his hand out to grab onto Mickey’s before he could press anything and kill him. “Don’t make me laugh.”

Mickey smiled then at his touch – his real smile – and Ian felt his heart kick as his head grew heavy suddenly, sinking deeper into the pillows without meaning to as the morphine worked its way through his body, causing the pain to subside almost immediately as his limbs went weak.

Mickey lifted Ian’s hand then, simply holding it in his own as he looked at it, tracing Ian’s freckles with his thumb before he slipped his other hand back into his pocket.

“Got somethin’ for you,” he said, and Ian watched as he pulled his ring out, the sun catching the edges and making it shine.

It was stupid maybe, Ian thought, but there was something about that little gold band glinting in the light that almost made him cry; it was like a tiny spark in all the darkness that had surrounded them – a spark that could now burn into a flame that would – if he had any say in it – never be put out.

It was just as much Ian’s lighthouse as Mickey was.

“It rolled under the seat,” Ian recalled then, biting his tongue as he grinned at the memory of how Mickey’s face had lit up when he’d told him that while he was slowly dying.

“Yea.” Mickey held it up in front of him, his eyes resting on its matte surface as his brows pulled together in a sudden look of worry that made Ian’s insides ache more than they already did.

“What’s wrong?”

“Do umm…” Mickey sucked his bottom lip between his teeth, thumbing his temple as he tried to force the words out. “Do you still want it?”

Ian just blinked at him, certain he had misheard.

“What?”

“It’s just, after everything, I didn’t know…”

“Shut up,” Ian cut him off – his hand shooting out against the weight of the morphine – and snatched the ring from his grasp, shoving it down onto his own finger with so much force he probably would have winced if he didn’t feel high as a kite. “I thought you were fuckin’ smart, Milkovich.”

Mickey’s lips pressed together in a tight line as he tried to hold back a smile that would probably melt Ian’s insides if he let it escape.

“I am fuckin’ smart Gallagher, I…”

“Then don’t say stupid fuckin’ things.”

Mickey let that smile escape then – his teeth dragging across his bottom lip – and leaned back in his chair, his hand automatically intertwining with Ian’s when Ian reached for it.

“I see a bullet to the gut hasn’t changed you, thank fuck.”

A hiss of air escaped Ian’s nose in amusement at that, his eyes drifting up to the ceiling suddenly as an abrupt wave of tiredness claimed him.

“Lucky you,” Ian whispered, feeling his insides melt, just like he knew they would. “I’d insult you more but, I’m kinda tired.” Ian closed his eyes then as he nestled his head back into the pillow. “Tell me what happened.”

Mickey sniffed beside him, his grip on Ian’s hand tightening almost imperceptibly, and Ian knew it was because he was remembering.

“How much do you remember?”

“Mmm,” Ian breathed, working his mouth up as he thought. “Toyov gave me his gun, I looked at you and then, the next thing I remember I was in the back of the Range Rover, with you over top of me and…” Ian opened his eyes then, his head lifting up despite the weight of the drugs and the tiredness as he gazed at Mickey. “Fergal Maguire.”

Mickey lifted his eyebrows, a small smile pulling up the corner of his mouth.

“Yea, even as you were dying right in fuckin’ front of me you still had time to be jealous.”

Ian rolled his eyes and flipped him the bird.

“Fuck you, musta been the blood loss or somethin’. I was sure you had slept with him.”

“Yea about that whole thing,” Mickey ventured then, and the way he said it made Ian’s eyes narrow as his heart rate picked back up, the beeping from his monitor not doing a great job of hiding his feelings.

“What about it?”

“Oh will you fuck off!” Mickey huffed, rubbing his finger along his bottom lip. “I did _not_ sleep with Fergal.”

“Mhmm, well, I recall a dream where…”

“Yea,” Mickey interrupted, “that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

Ian let his head fall back again – let his eyes close to the memories.

“My dream?”

“Yea.”

Mickey didn’t expand on that, so Ian just shrugged as he stared at the backs of his closed lids, figuring his fiancé wanted him to somehow explain himself, even though Ian didn’t really know if he ever could.

“I dunno, it was just weird.” Ian still recalled the details as if he had _just_ woken up from it. “I had this dream that you went to New York to see Fergal; that you planned all this shit. Fuck Mick, I could see you clear as day, like I was actually there with you, and it wasn’t all just in my head...”

Mickey was quiet for a moment, and Ian knew from nothing more than the love he had for him that Mickey was thinking.

“Most of it happened, y’know,” he admitted finally, and Ian could hear the hesitation in his voice, but he was too tired now to open his eyes and look at him. “What you told me in the car…”

“But not the Fergal thing?”

“No, Jesus. Not that.”

The beeping on the monitor began to slow.

“Did you drink mimosas?”

Mickey snorted so hard it almost made Ian jump.

“What the fuck? When the fuck has a Milkovich ever drank a mimosa?”

Despite the memory in his head, Ian smiled at that – felt an achy laugh rumble lightly in his belly.

“Fair enough.”

Mickey went quiet for another minute, causing Ian to tighten his grip on his hand, just to make sure he was still there.

“He asked me to,” Mickey confessed then, his voice going soft as if this were the first time he was admitting it, but Ian remembered that part of their conversation in the backseat. “To sleep with him, I mean. I agreed but…”

“But that Irish fuck changed his mind.”

“Yea.” Mickey leaned forward; Ian could feel the weight shift on the bed beside him. “Fucker’s actually quite the romantic.”

It wasn’t hard to tell that Mickey was slowly working his way up to something; the way his tone changed as he admitted that truth – so quietly but openly – made Ian sure he was going to apologize at any moment; but he didn’t need to.

“You don’t need to apologize.” Ian rubbed his thumb absently over Mickey’s knuckles, and could have sworn he felt the weight lift up off his body. “I know you were just doing what you had to do. I think that’s…” Ian trailed off, opening one eye to peek at the ceiling before deciding to leave them closed.

“You think what?” Mickey sounded worried again, and Ian could tell he was chewing his lip.

“I think that’s why I had the dream in the first place. Why it was so…accurate.”

“Whatta you mean?” Mickey asked, his voice going gruff suddenly. “You don’t believe in all that fuckin’ psychic shit do you? ‘Cause if we’re getting married that’s a conversation we…”

“Will you shut up?” Ian spat, finally deciding to just lift his head again – even though it felt like it weighed a thousand pounds – and stare at Mickey in annoyance. “I’m trying to say that I thought about a lot of things in the dark, Mickey. I thought about the possibilities and what choices you had. Maybe my mind just knew what made sense, or what would make sense to _you_. Maybe I just know you _that_ well. The whole time I was down in that fuckin’ basement, bleeding and fuckin’ hurting, all I was thinking about is what you would do if you were me, what you would do to get back to me if you could. I didn’t have my meds, my mind was racing constantly, and all I had was time to think about what _you_ would do for me...” Ian took a shaky breath then and it hitched in his throat as he realized that he was on the verge of tears.

It was silent again, that confession hanging in the air between them as the sounds of life in a hospital echoed in calmly through the closed door.

“There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you,” Mickey said finally, his tiny voice cutting through the hushed sounds, causing Ian’s lips to tremble and his look to grow so goddamn fond that he just wanted to pick Mickey up, lay him down on the bed, and do all the things he had imagined doing in the shadows.

“I know.” Ian tried to smile, but it was hindered by a thousand emotions crashing down on him at once. “I knew going to Maguire was the smartest decision. I knew if Fergal ran the IFL, he’d stand with Colin. I knew you’d have to take out Sirko to get to Okulov. In the words of every fucking Milkovich I’ve ever met, it was just smart business.”

Mickey smiled at that, his grin going so wide that Ian could have sworn there was a hint of pride somewhere beneath the love that was etched into every fiber of his being.

“You’d make a good criminal, y’know?” he huffed, before standing up suddenly, his whole body leaning forward as he kissed Ian without warning, causing Ian to suck in a breath through his nose in surprise before settling into it, and the morphine couldn’t even come fucking close to comparing to the euphoria he felt when Mickey’s lips touched his own.

~

Mickey held Ian’s bottom lip between his own, tasting it for a moment, and although it was much too dry from a week of doing nothing more than lying dormant, Mickey didn’t think he minded in the least.

“You know me,” Mickey whispered then, his breath hot on Ian’s face as he pulled back just enough to look into his eyes. “Better than anyone.”

Mickey didn’t really know why he said it, but he just felt like Ian should know that.

Ian’s face went soft, his hand coming up to press gently against Mickey’s cheek for just a moment before he let it fall back down.

“Guess that’s why Fergal was such a dick in my dream…” he sighed, and chuckled.

Mickey sat back down, but never let go of Ian’s hand.

“Why? Because you know me?”

“Yea. I know _you_ ,” Ian breathed, pointing a scratched-up finger in Mickey’s direction. “I clearly don’t know _him_ …”

Mickey nodded, glancing quickly out the window as a plane took off in the distance; he supposed that was as much of an explanation for Ian’s witchy dream as he’d ever get: Ian knew him well enough to know the lengths he would go to – knew the way his mind worked; but Ian knew nothing of Fergal Maguire and the halfway decent guy he actually turned out to be.

“Oh he’s a dick,” Mickey agreed then, scratching absently at his eyebrow before returning his gaze to his favourite porcelain face. “But he’s a surprisingly alright dick.”

Leaning his head back again, Ian closed his eyes; Mickey could tell he was tired, and knew he should probably let him rest, but after a week of doing nothing more than watching him sleep, Mickey just wanted to sit up until dawn and talk to him – just listen to his voice until there were no other sounds beyond his.

“One day you’ll tell me everything that happened…” Ian sighed, clearing his throat a little before taking another sip of water. “Just not today. I’m tired. How the fuck can I be tired after sleepin’ for a week straight?”

Mickey smiled at Ian’s closed eyes, and liked the way the sun made his freckles show – he was pretty sure he liked that more now than he ever had.

“Yea alright sleepy face.”

Ian’s own lips turned up.

“So did he go back to New York?” Ian mumbled then, is voice growing heavy, heavy, and Mickey felt his heart beat a little faster as he let go of Ian’s hand, his palms growing suddenly sweaty, and he was thankful his own pulse wasn’t currently audible.

“Who? Maguire?”

“Mmm…”

“No,” Mickey admitted, and figured if he was going to get it over with, he may as well do it now. “He’s with Okulov…”

Ian’s head snapped back up in an instant.

“ _He’s still alive!?_ ” he hissed, poison seeping out of his words as his brows came together, and Mickey honestly thought he might die on the spot from the look in Ian’s eyes – anger mixed with hurt, and betrayal, maybe?

Mickey glanced back out the window.

“You said you wanted to do it, and after…” he motioned absently to Ian’s bandaged abdomen. “Like fuck I was ever going to let anyone else have the satisfaction.”

“Was Okulov the one who shot me?” Ian’s voice was calmer now, so Mickey risked returning his gaze.

“No.”

“Then who did?”

“Some Russian prick,” Mickey spat, remembering the rage that had boiled up within him as Ian had fallen into his arms, blood pooling out from his stomach at an alarming rate. “Just some grunt that was still alive; came down the hallway and we didn’t see him in time…”

“Good.” Ian closed his eyes again and leaned back for the hundredth time; apparently he was finally – _finally_ – done for the day.

“Whatta you mean _good_!?”

Ian shrugged.

“I didn’t want Okulov to have lived the past fucking week knowing he had shot me, the piece of shit.”

Mickey huffed in amusement at that, crossing his arms over his chest as he closed his own eyes and leaned his head back.

“As soon as you’re out of here, he’s a dead man.”

“Yea,” Ian sighed, his voice suddenly very quiet. “Yea he is.”

It took the next couple days, but Mickey eventually managed to tell Ian everything that had happened since he had disappeared through the foundry doors with Okulov. The entire time Mickey yammered on, Ian had simply sat and listened, never once asking questions; it was like just listening to Mickey was bringing Ian some sort of inner peace, which was a feeling Mickey knew well; so he, too, had simply sat, and talked.

Sometimes, Ian’s face would come together in curiosity as Mickey gave him details that were completely unfamiliar to him – like how Mickey had actually met Fergal at his apartment for breakfast and not some restaurant, and that they had drank beer instead of fucking orange juice and champagne; like how Mickey had not just taken their Cubs cap with him, but also their Little League photo, where it had sat tucked inside his jacket against his heart until after Terry’s funeral; like how Fergal had never once asked about Mandy, but Mickey wouldn’t be surprised if one day he did.

Other times, Ian’s face would contort a little in amusement when Mickey explained something that was so eerily similar to Ian’s dream that it made Mickey wonder if there was maybe shit in this universe he didn’t quite know how to explain away, which honestly wouldn’t surprise him in the least, because somehow – despite everything he had done in his life to deserve otherwise – he had found Ian, and that in and of itself was some sort of miracle, he was sure.

After that, Mickey spent basically every hour of the next few weeks by Ian’s side. On a few occasions, Mickey’s pushy attitude and the fact that the Milkoviches were dishing out for a private room granted him special privileges, and he would convince the nurses to bring in a cot from somewhere else so he could spend the night by Ian’s bed, doing nothing more than facing him in the dim lights, watching his chest rise and fall as the machines continued to beep away. Most of the time though, Ian’s stubbornness and South Side pride won out, and Mickey found himself at home in their empty bed, his only source of comfort the fact that he left a handful of heavyweights outside of Ian’s room, even though there was no longer a reason to.

They were safe.

Mickey tried to convince Ian to let the beard that was consuming his face stay put, because it was sexy as fuck – just a dark shadow of auburn hair that made his green eyes and freckles stand out; but after that first week of being back amongst the living, Ian had started scratching to within an inch of his life, so Mickey had conceded, bringing the electric shaver from home and begrudgingly removing it, kissing every new patch of bare skin that came into view when the hair was removed, making small moans of pleasure escape Ian’s lips that only set Mickey’s teeth on edge and made his cock harden; but they were still a long way off before _that_ could happen; so, Mickey had chewed hard on the inside of his cheek, and waited until he was at home in the shower to jack off to the thought of the day Ian would finally be back inside him once more.

Mickey didn’t think he had ever been as soft or as fond as he had been during those few weeks in his entire life, but after nearly losing the one thing that made him whole, Mickey didn’t altogether care, and neither – apparently – did Ian.

“I’ve liked you taking care of me,” Ian whispered, leaning his head back in the wheelchair to look up at Mickey as he finally rolled him towards the front entrance and freedom.

It was nearly mid-July, and every single one of the Gallagher’s were waiting out front when Mickey pushed his fiancé through the doors, bright faces beaming red in the summer sun.

Despite the cold looks Mickey had occasionally received from one or two of them when they had come to visit their brother, their overall fondness towards him had started to revert back to normal over the past three weeks, the sporadic words they would say to Mickey when they came becoming more and more pleasant, and even though Mickey prided himself on not giving a fuck what other people thought of him, he was maybe a little happy that the Gallagher’s were starting to forgive him just a little.

He didn’t want to be a part of a family that hated him.

“Hey fuck head!” Lip spat, tossing his cigarette out onto the sidewalk with the biggest goddamn smile Mickey had ever seen before striding forward and wrapping his arms firmly around Ian’s shoulders, arching his back so the rest of him wouldn’t come in contact with his still-healing brother.

“Hey.” Ian’s voice was quiet but happy, and it made Mickey happy, too, to see the way Ian melted at the mere sight of them.

“How you feelin’?” Lip’s eyes shifted towards Mickey then, maybe a little critically, but they only landed on him for a second before returning to Ian as he stepped back.

“Yea, fine!”

“Pain gone away?” Debbie asked, leaning over a bit so that Franny could hand her uncle a tiny pink teddy bear from where she sat up in her mother’s arms.

“Thanks Franny!” Ian cooed, waving the bear a little to elicit a smile from his niece before looking back towards his sister. “Yea, pain’s pretty manageable now. Mickey convinced the docs to give me the good shit.” Ian reached into his pocket and pulled out a pill bottle, shaking it so the pills clacked around.

“Yea well just be smart about it,” Lip added, and it wasn’t lost on Mickey why he said it; addiction wasn’t something the Gallagher’s took lightly.

“I’ll be handing them out,” Mickey cut in, stepping up beside Ian and snatching the bottle from his hands.

“What are you his fuckin’ nurse now?” Carl snorted, face deadpan in the sunlight, but there was no harm in it, and he actually reached out then to lightly punch Mickey’s arm.

Mickey thought he might like Carl the most.

“Now?” Ian scoffed, rolling his eyes. “He hasn’t left me alone for nearly a month.”

Mickey reached his own hand out and flicked the bandage over the back of Ian’s ear, making him wince.

“Ow! The fuck was that for?”

“Being an asshole.” Mickey shrugged, pulling a cigarette out from his pack of smokes and lighting it before shoving them haphazardly back into his jean pocket.

“Hey are you gunna come home for a bit?” Liam asked then, tiny hand coming up to shield his eyes from the sun.

Mickey glanced at Ian’s face, his own heart squeezing a bit at the question; he wanted Ian with him always, but now that they could go wherever they wanted to, he knew going home to South Wallace for a bit would probably do Ian some good.

Ian turned, his eyes landing on Mickey as a small smile pulled up the corner of his mouth.

“Nah, I think I’m gunna go home first, kid.”

_Home_.

Mickey chewed the inside of his lip.

“I can drop him off later tonight though?” he offered – mostly to keep himself from showing emotions in front of others like a pussy. Mickey didn’t offer just because he wanted Ian to be happy though, he also offered because he thought maybe it would help get him fully back in their good graces.

“Yea, sure.” Lip sniffed, wiping a sheen of sweat away from his forehead before placing his hands on his hips, that air of paternal protectiveness clouding around him like fog.

Mickey would never blame him for it.

“We’ll plan a little party,” Debbie added, glancing around at her siblings who simply nodded in agreement, expectant smiles lighting up their faces. “Invite Kev and V?”

“Obviously.”

“Great.”

“So I’ll text you guys in a bit?” Ian ventured then, and held his arm out suddenly towards Mickey.

Mickey stared at him for a second before realizing what the fuck he was supposed to do.

“Oh shit, here.” Popping his smoke between his lips, Mickey went forward, crouching a little so Ian could wrap his arm around his shoulders and put all his weight onto them as he stood himself up. “I’ll bring the car around.”

Lip took Mickey’s place, gently staying by his brother’s side for reassurance more than anything so Mickey could jog to the Audi, pull out his key fob, unlock it, and climb in in a single go.

If there was one thing Mickey had missed more than Ian, it was his car, and a sudden feeling gripped him then as he held the wheel – a feeling close to pure happiness.

Mickey had everything he’d ever wanted.

Starting her up with a quiet rumble, Mickey backed out, peeling his way through the parking lot way faster than was necessary before pulling up front, Ian’s gaze and the smile on his face never once breaking away from him.

Hopping out, Mickey ran around to open the passenger door, which only made Ian roll his eyes more and cause the other Gallagher’s to stare at him with amused looks, like seeing one of Chicago’s most notorious family members become a little bitch for their red-headed brother was entertaining as fuck.

“Jesus Mick, I’m not fuckin’ useless…”

“Shut up and get in the car.”

Ian did as he was told, sliding gently into the front seat before eyeing his siblings.

“I’ll text ya in a bit?”

“Sure thing, douchebag,” Lip joked, shooting him a smile and a half-wave before closing his door for him.

Mickey slid back into the driver’s seat, turning his head to gaze at Ian there beside him for longer than was necessary, but just seeing him back where he belonged was enough to make him lose himself completely.

“You ready?” he asked, and Ian turned towards him, that small smile that had been on his lips for ages now turning into a full on grin.

“Show me what ya got, tough guy.”

As always, Mickey didn’t need to be asked twice; he threw the car in gear and peeled out, sending a cloud of smoke up as rubber bit hard into pavement, leaving the Gallagher’s to all shoot them the finger in the rearview, which only made them laugh.

~

Closing his eyes, Ian laid his right hand gently over the bandages on his stomach, blindly shooting his left out towards the gear shift to intertwine his fingers with Mickey’s as he leaned his head back, watching the way the light and shadows shifted over his closed lids, reminding him of the pulsing lights inside the club where his life changed.

“I missed this,” he whispered, letting the air conditioning blow its way across his face as his skin rippled.

Mickey tightened his grip at his words, causing Ian to open his eyes once more and watch the traffic that seemed to be moving at a snail’s pace as they flew by.

Absently, Ian wondered if Mickey would ever get tired of living his life at high-speed, and somewhere inside of him, he kind of hoped he wouldn’t.

“Colin may pop by later,” Mickey added then, and Ian glanced towards him. “Catch us up on things…”

Ian simply nodded, but found he was actually a bit excited to see them. Colin, Iggy, and Mandy had all been MIA since the night he had almost died, but Mickey had gladly informed him that it was only because of the high-profile case that was building around the assassination at Terry’s funeral, and the Russian massacre that had taken place somewhere in North Side.

Apparently there were enough lawmen and lawyers on the Milkovich’s payroll that it really hadn’t been much of an issue for them – that it was easy to simply put it all on Sirko and his personal ties with the Russians – but that didn’t stop the media, the tabloids, or the nightly news from sniffing around.

More than once Mickey had had to have people escorted from the hospital – people trying to get a look at – or a picture of – Mickey Milkovich and the infamous _someone_ he was apparently protecting; but absolutely nothing had tied the Brothers Milkovich – or Ian – to the massive shoot out, so their interest was merely speculation.

“Can they finally leave the house?” Ian inquired then, his thumb running gently over Mickey’s tattoos as he changed lanes. “Or is it still a media circus?”

“Yea, Colin’s been back to business for a while now. Nobody cares about yesterday’s news, man.”

“But you do, right?” Ian teased, clearly meaning himself as he leaned his head back again and gazed at Mickey

Ian knew he had had the exact same thought a thousand times before, but watching Mickey drive was never going to be something he got tired of, and the way he was always so in control and unafraid made Ian wish more than anything that he could take that control away from him that very second and give them what he knew they both needed.

There was nothing stopping him…

Mickey eyed him for a moment, obviously seeing the thoughts that were beginning to drift into Ian’s head as he watched him swerve through traffic.

“Don’t even fuckin’ look at me like that,” Mickey huffed, a smile creeping up his face. “I’m already bursting at the seams and it’s gunna be a good long while before you can…” he trailed off, motioning absently towards Ian’s dick.

Fuck, just the way his blue eyes scanned over Ian’s crotch made Ian want him more than anything.

“Maybe so,” Ian sighed, disentangling his hand from Mickey’s and setting it on his thigh, dragging it slowly up his jeans. “But I can still manage other things.”

There was literally nothing more Ian wanted to do than touch him.

Mickey’s right hand flew up onto the wheel then as Ian’s wandering fingers reached his cock, making Ian laugh quietly in amusement.

“Fuck off, Ian!” Mickey spat – his knuckles going white as his tried to steer – but he didn’t make a move to remove Ian’s hand, which only spurred him on.

“Never.” Ian cupped Mickey’s dick in the driver’s seat – his long arms having no problem reaching over in the smaller space – and massaged his way around the fabric, causing the car to swerve a little into the other lane.

“Ian...” Mickey’s voice was firm, but not as firm as his cock was becoming.

Chaos, crime, and madness had always been things Ian thrived on, even though he had become convinced over his past few months with Mickey that they were things he no longer wanted or needed to survive; but there was something so divinely thrilling about jacking Mickey off as they drove down the freeway towards South Side – tinted windows hiding them from view – that made Ian think that maybe he’d always be able to find time to do bad things with Mickey Milkovich.

Sliding his hand upwards, Ian expertly undid the button at the top of Mickey’s jeans before unzipping them – shoving himself in between Mickey’s boxers and his skin – and just the warmth of him against his palm – just the feel of his hair brushing against his fingers – made Ian’s abdomen ache as pleasure pulsed through him.

“Fuck,” Mickey whimpered, his body sinking back in the seat a little as his mouth dropped open, his eyes never once leaving the road.

“I’m gunna make you cum in your car,” Ian offered then, his hand tightening around Mickey’s dick and pulling it free, the sight of it there in the tinted light making Ian’s own breath come in shorter bursts as Mickey visibly shivered against his touch.

Ian remembered thinking once that going days without Mickey in his hands had been fucking torture, but these past few _weeks_ – these past few weeks of watching Mickey constantly stand guard in his room beside him and not be able to bring him pleasure – had been Hell on earth.

“Shit, Ian…” Mickey said softly, his eyes half-closing at the pressure Ian was exerting around him, and Ian thought that if he closed them completely and crashed the car, well, he wouldn’t really give a shit.

“Spit into my hand,” Ian said then, letting go of Mickey’s rock-hard cock and holding it up to his mouth, those parted pink lips not even bothering to close as blue eyes found his.

Mickey only stared at him for a moment, clearly trying to let logic and reason win out in this scenario as they sped towards home, but Ian nearly thanked God out loud when Mickey tilted his head then and spat directly into his palm.

“If I crash this car, Ian…”

“I’ll fuckin’ die happy.”

Reaching back down, Ian took hold of Mickey’s dick at once, fingering the precum he had already forced out and rubbing it down over his veins to his pelvis, feeling his slick skin beneath his grip like it was fucking silk before dragging his hand back up to the tip.

A desperate moan escaped Mickey’s chest as his hold increased on the wheel, his hands twisting back and forth slightly as if echoing Ian’s own movements.

“Jesus,” Mickey panted, the word coming out broken as his breath hitched in his throat, and Ian had never been more turned on his life as he was when Mickey flipped the indicator on then and shifted into the passing lane, flying by a van with a family inside as if driving with a hand around his dick was second nature to him.

Christ, Ian wanted to touch himself, but the idea of the pain stopped him as he slipped Mickey in and out of his fist at a rapid pace, the wet sound of moisture so sickeningly sweet in the quiet space around them that Ian felt his own dick twitch despite his body’s protestations.

“I wish they could see us,” Ian whispered then, glancing at the passing cars as he increased his pressure, causing Mickey’s mouth to drop open further and his shaking foot to press the gas harder than he meant to, his entire body responding as if it had been made for Ian’s touch and Ian’s alone.

“Fuck Ian, I’m gunna cum,” Mickey whined, his shoulders lifting slightly as he stared unblinkingly out the windshield, all the while his grip tightening so hard against the steering wheel that Ian thought he might snap it in two.

Sliding his hand up to Mickey’s tip, Ian tightened his fist and went to work – it may have been a long time since he’d done this, but like fuck he would ever forget what his man liked.

“Cum all over the fucking steering wheel,” Ian hissed, his own dick growing hard in his pants as he jerked the head of Mickey’s cock, the precum making his palm so absurdly wet that Ian could feel the cool air coming from the vents, making the moisture that dripped down the back of his hand tingle cold against his skin.

“Fuck Ian,” Mickey panted, whimpered, and Ian stared at his face as his hips started to tremble.

It took everything Ian had within him not to lean over and capture Mickey’s orgasm with his mouth as he fell apart then, the car swerving back and forth slightly as Ian pointed Mickey’s dick upwards, allowing massive ropes of his cum to shoot out like fireworks and land dead centre on the wheel before the last few spurts pulsed up and out onto Ian’s closed fist.

There were a lot of reasons Ian hated being wounded, but not being able to fuck Mickey when he wanted had to be the absolute fucking worst.

“Jesus Christ, Mickey.” Ian pulled his hand back to glance briefly at the cum on his skin, the opalescent drops making his mouth water as Mickey breathed hard beside him.

The sound of his harsh, ragged pants made the need almost too unbearable.

Ian leaned over at once – as gently yet forcefully as he could – and wrapped that same hand around the back of Mickey’s head, pulling him in close so he could kiss him, causing the pain inside of him to flare up suddenly at the awkward angle as he got cum all through Mickey’s hair, but Ian didn’t give a flying fuck about that, either, not even when the car shifted so far to the right that it almost hit the guardrail.

Walking through their front door in South Side was like coming home, Ian thought; it was like coming home in every way a person _could_ come home, not just in the literal sense: the way his body relaxed at nothing more than the sight of the red brick reminded him of safety; the way his mind conjured memories as he stood in the kitchen and smelt the leftover hints of coffee and cigarettes reminded him of comfort; the way the wood creaked underneath his and Mickey’s weight as they ascended the stairs towards their bedroom reminded him of all the days yet to come…

“How much dried cum is in my hair?” Mickey huffed then, shuffling Ian towards their dresser so he could lean against it, causing Ian’s soft reverie to disappear in a cloud of smoke.

Ian snorted and pulled Mickey’s head down in front of him so he could glance at the back of it; there were dried, pearly streaks everywhere, and the sight was just as hot to Ian now as it had been when it first happened.

“Yea you need to take a shower.” Ian couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face as Mickey gave him an exasperated look and rolled his eyes.

“Can’t believe you did that, man…”

“Would you rather I hadn’t?” Ian leaned forward, nuzzling his face into Mickey’s neck.

“Is that a trick question?”

Ian smiled against his pulse.

“Did you clean the steering wheel?”

“Yea, I always have cleaning wipes in the car.” Mickey said this like it was just common sense, causing Ian to place a kiss against his skin before pulling away.

“Of course you do. Now go have a shower, you’re gross.”

Mickey shot him the finger.

“When I get out maybe we can try to uhh…” Mickey glanced down at Ian’s dick, and Ian felt his face nearly split in two as excitement grew in his chest.

“Yea!?” The doctor had strongly informed Ian that any form of physical activity was a no-no for another couple weeks at least, but Ian was sure that he could go slow enough to not tear his staples. Then again, as the image of Mickey’s bare ass propped up in the air in front of him floated into his mind, he thought maybe he was wrong…

“Ian,” Mickey barked then, snapping his fingers in front of Ian’s face to grab his attention.

“What?”

“We can’t fuck. I meant I could maybe try to return the favour, if you wanted…” 

Ian felt his mood sink.

“You could _maybe_ try?”

“Yea man, I just…” Mickey rubbed the back of his head out of instinct, his face contorting in disgust when he felt the crusted cum before pulling his hand away. “I just don’t wanna hurt you or some shit, and your meds make you groggy so...”

Despite Ian knowing full well Mickey was only trying to be sweet, he was rather annoyed suddenly, a long, harsh breath escaping his nose before he turned and strolled over to the bed, sinking down onto it in a huff.

“Maybe later,” Ian spat, though he did really wanted Mickey to try _now_.

“What’s wrong?” Mickey’s voice was soft then, worried, which somehow only annoyed Ian further.

“Nothin’ just, go have your shower.” Ian waved a hand in the direction of the bathroom before rubbing it over his eyes; the meds _did_ make him groggy, and he was sleepy again, but it was the fact that Mickey was right that was nearly driving him all the way past complete irritation into madness.

Ian knew this feeling, and it scared him.

“Whatever man.” Mickey turned for the bathroom, slamming the door rather harshly behind him before Ian could have the final word.

Ian glanced absently at the dresser; the blue Cubs cap was sitting on the wooden surface, taking an unspoken place of pride; beside it, their Little League photo was right back to where it had always been – leaning up against the lamp in the afternoon light – and the way Mickey’s little blue eyes stared at the back of his own little red head made Ian gaze back at the closed door across the hall, and he almost would have felt bad, if it weren’t for the fact that he wanted to follow his fiancé, kick down the door, and punch him in the face at the same time he fucked him senseless.

Ian knew these random mood swings, and they scared him, too.

He was about to shift himself up to the headboard when the door swung back open then and Mickey stormed out.

“Nah fuck that,” he barked, striding straight up to Ian and standing directly in front of him, causing Ian to lean back a little and stare up at his face. “What’s your problem?”

Ian felt his eyes nearly roll into the back of his head.

“Can we talk about this later? I’m tired and…”

“No,” Mickey interrupted, eyes raging. “You don’t get to pull that shit with me Gallagher, you’ve slept long enough.”

Annoyance was turning to anger inside Ian’s chest, and what made it worse was that it wasn’t really anger at Mickey, just pent-up frustration with himself.

“Look, I don’t need a fuckin’ babysitter, alright?” Ian hissed, louder than he meant to, and he saw the way Mickey flinched a little. “Sometimes I just want…” he trailed off, feeling suddenly like he was going to cry, and Jesus Christ he hated himself in the moment – he hated everything he was.

“Sometimes you just want what?” Mickey’s voice was hard, cold, but he was trying to be sympathetic, which was clearly more than what Ian was doing.

Reaching his hands out then without really even meaning to, Ian rested them on Mickey’s waist and grabbed the hem of his shirt, tugging him in closer; surprisingly, Mickey let him, and Ian rested his cheek against the firmness of Mickey’s stomach, inhaling his scent so he could try and calm himself into explanations.

“Sometimes I just want you, Mickey.” Ian wasn’t one hundred percent sure what that even meant, but it was the truth; he thought maybe it meant that sometimes, he just wanted the Mickey he had fallen in love with – the one who didn’t treat him like he had ever had a hole in him to begin with.

Mickey lifted his hands then, intertwining them into the hair at the top of Ian’s head and caressing it gently between his fingers, the sensation causing goosebumps to climb their way up Ian’s spine and his sudden mood to dissipate.

“What else is going on?” Mickey asked, his voice so quiet now that Ian shifted his hands, wrapping them tightly around Mickey’s waist so he could hold him fast against his face, and it wasn’t lost on Ian how Mickey – just like Lip – would always know when there was something _more_.

“The doctor readjusted my meds two days ago,” Ian finally admitted, and that was the truth of it; he hadn’t wanted to tell Mickey, because as of now, Mickey had still never been privy to his darkness, and even after everything, Ian still didn’t want to burst the perfectly imperfect, fucked-up bubble they had managed to create in the past three months – even after everything, Ian was positive that the downsides of his disease was still the worst fate he could imagine for Mickey.

Yet, despite wanting to keep that bit of information a secret, Ian felt lighter at the speaking of it.

“What does that mean?” Mickey inquired, slipping one of his hands under Ian’s chin and lifting his head so their eyes met, his baby blues so goddamn _fond_ that Ian could have swam to the ends of the earth within them.

“It means my mood is going to be all over the place for a little bit.” Ian intertwined his hands behind Mickey’s back, letting them rest on the heat of his sacrum. “I should be okay just, maybe down and out for a week or so.”

“Okay…” Mickey agreed, but Ian knew he needed more – that he deserved more.

“It was just a few days but, being off my meds fucked me up royally, not to mention…” Ian trailed off, knowing he didn’t need to point out the glaring hole ripped through him.

Mickey traced his thumb back and forth along Ian’s jaw, causing Ian’s eyes to fall closed with pleasure and the complete feeling of safety that Mickey’s body alone provided.

“Why didn’t you just tell me that?”

Ian turned his face away again, resting his cheek back against Mickey’s stomach, and he could feel the coarseness of his soft belly hair through the fabric.

“Because I still don’t want you to have to deal with my problems…”

Mickey snorted at that, peeling Ian gently away from his waist so he could kneel down onto the floor, his face suddenly so close to Ian’s that Ian could see himself reflected back in Mickey’s eyes, and he wondered in the moment just what it was Mickey saw when he looked at him.

“Firstly,” Mickey sighed, those eyes scanning Ian’s. “Have you fuckin’ forgotten what _my_ problems have put us through?”

A small huff of air escaped Ian’s nose in amusement at that; it hadn’t entirely all been Mickey’s fault, though; Ian knew that the bullet that had been removed from his stomach was there because of nobody but himself – because of the choices he had made.

“ _Our_ problems,” Ian corrected, and Mickey rolled his eyes.

“Whatever,” Mickey huffed, the corner of his mouth pulling upwards. “Besides, I already told you once, dumbass.”

“Told me what?”

“I think it went something like, _I know I wanna be with you instead of nobody; I know I wanna be with you – all the fucked up versions of you and us together_ …”

Not for a hundred years would Ian forget the words that had escaped Mickey’s mouth at the end of his voicenote from New York, and he smiled back at him then, feeling his worry ebb back, back into the sea.

“I know,” he admitted quietly, leaning forward to touch his lips softly to Mickey’s so he could whisper against them. “Of course I know that.”

Mickey’s lips parted the smallest bit as Ian spoke, letting their breath mingle.

“Then don’t shut me out.”

Ian closed the hairsbreadth gap between them then, taking Mickey’s mouth so violently within his own that he was sure he’d be able to feel it in his deepest, darkest dreams.

Mickey’s tongue came out as Ian tilted his head back, forcing Ian’s lips to open further before it dipped inside his mouth, the wetness of it making Ian’s skin ripple to life, and he bit harshly at Mickey’s top lip before he had to pull back, afraid they might lose sight of everything completely.

“Okay, stop,” Ian panted, blood rushing into the best parts of him as he grinned against Mickey’s mouth, which followed his own in chase as he leaned away.

“You sure?” Mickey didn’t sound positive anymore, either – he sounded like he wanted all of him, in every way he could get.

Ian chuckled, feeling his breath come back hot off Mickey’s forehead as he placed a kiss between his eyebrows, just like he had wanted to do as he was dying.

“Yea,” he sighed, but wished he didn’t have the willpower. “You need to get that fuckin’ cum out of your hair and I…I think I need to have a nap.”

Resigning himself to the fact that Mickey and that godforsaken doctor were right, Ian tried to let his worry slink back to where it belonged; he knew he had to take it easy – for the sake of his mental health just as much as his physical – because if he pushed too hard – if he let it consume him – he’d end up somewhere he didn’t want to be.

“Okay, sleepy face.” Mickey pressed his lips to the corner of Ian’s jaw, and Ian leaned his head into it for just a moment before Mickey disappeared from sight.

~

Colin came by in a convoy that afternoon, four SUV’s pulling up at the curb out front. As Mickey opened the door, he wondered absently just what the neighbours must think; they knew a Milkovich had moved in, Mickey was sure of it – he was sure because despite them being in the heart of South Side, not a single thing had happened to his Audi out front, like they knew if they even tried to look at it the wrong way, the wrath of an entire empire would come crashing down around them.

Mickey watched his big brother as he strolled up the stairs in his grey suit – leaving a handful of security on the front porch behind him – and when he stepped past Mickey then, Mickey realized just how long it had been since he’d seen him – he looked taller somehow, older, and his hair had definitely been cut.

“How’s Ian?” Colin asked at once, strolling into the dining room and sitting promptly down in one of the chairs, motioning towards the fridge. “And can I get a beer?”

Mickey huffed at that, but closed the door and strolled to the kitchen, pulling out a bottle and tossing the cap into the sink.

“Yea he’s good.” Mickey slid into the seat beside him, making sure his voice was low. “Sleepin’ right now.”

“Ahh.” Colin nodded, glancing back towards the stairs before lowering his own voice. “You tell him why we couldn’t come by?”

Mickey grabbed his pack of cigarettes from the centre of the table, fingering one between his lips and lighting it.

“Yea, he knows you guys have been busy.”

“Busy!?” Colin snorted, taking a sip of beer. “That’s an understatement.”

Mickey eyed his brother, seeing the way his own blue eyes looked tired.

“Not that easy merging two empires hmm?”

“Fuck no.”

“How’s Iggy holdin’ up?” Mickey inquired, raising an eyebrow as a lungful of smoke escaped into the air between them.

“Jesus, he was born for this shit.”

“Yea?”

“Yea, he’s overseeing all of Sirko’s former operations now…” Colin trailed off, downing another mouthful before wiping a massive hand over his mouth. “If he wasn’t family, I’d worry about him taking over the whole goddamn thing.”

Mickey laughed at that, trying to imagine Iggy as a Kingpin.

“Pretty sure he’d miss the violence too much.”

Colin just nodded, returning his smile as he glanced around the house then, taking in every detail.

“So you gunna stay here?” he asked, taking Mickey somewhat by surprise, and he felt his brows furrow.

“Whatta you mean?”

“I mean you can go anywhere now; nobody’s after you, nobody’s after Ian. You really wanna stay in fuckin’ South Side?” There wasn’t judgment in his brother’s tone, just genuine curiosity.

“I’m gunna talk to him about it later, actually,” Mickey confessed, thumbing his temple. “I already have a bit of a list of things forming…” Mickey didn’t know just how he was going to bring everything up at once, but he was sure he’d figure it out…

“A list of what?”

“Of shit we need to talk about.”

“I’m sure he’ll enjoy that.”

Mickey gave him the finger.

“Yea he’s umm, not in the best place right now.” Mickey glanced towards the stairs, wondering absently just how long Ian was going to sleep for.

“Don’t blame yourself,” Colin added then, twirling his bottle around against the tabletop. “Ian made his bed, too, and now he’s laying in it. Literally.”

Gazing at his brother, Mickey chewed the inside of his lip; it would never matter what anyone said really, Mickey would always blame himself just a little.

“I should have given him my vest,” Mickey admitted then, sniffing loudly in the silence as Colin’s brows furrowed.

“What vest?”

“In North Side. As soon as I got to him, I should have taken my vest off and given it to him, I wasn’t thinking, I just…”

“Stop,” Colin hissed, tone hard and unflinching. “It’s done now, Ian is fine, and trust me, we both know he doesn’t blame you in the slightest.”

Mickey did know that, obviously, but it didn’t stop his own blame from gnawing at his edges.

“So everything else is good?” Mickey asked then, changing the subject as he took another long drag. “How’s the club?”

“Fine, busy. I’ve brought Sandy and a few of the cousins in to take over The Fairy Tale.”

Mickey almost flinched at hearing the name of the place he had first laid eyes on Ian, but when he remembered then that that goddamn place now belonged to the Milkoviches, he thought maybe it was poetic justice.

“Weird to think about,” he exhaled, crushing his cigarette into the ashtray in the middle of the table.

Colin simply nodded again, glancing down at the Rolex on his wrist then before chugging the rest of his beer; Mickey watched him do this, wondering absently if all their visits now were going to be short and sweet.

“Gotta go?” Mickey asked, and was surprised to find he was no longer curious as to why Colin had to rush off; that part of his life seemed to have died away when Ian almost had.

After everything, Mickey kind of thought he’d be content doing absolutely nothing with Ian forever.

“Yea, meeting with Fergal about a shipment in a few weeks.”

“How is the Irish fuck?” Mickey couldn’t help the smile that played on his lips at the thought of him; he had only seen Fergal once since the night in North Side, when he had gone to check in on Okulov’s well-being, just to make sure it wasn’t _well_ at all.

Colin huffed in amusement, getting up from his chair before striding over to the recycling like a normal human being and tossing the empty in.

“Y’know, I actually kinda like the guy…”

Mickey followed him back towards the front as a small laugh escaped his chest.

“Yea, fucker kinda grows on ya.”

“Speaking of.” Colin stopped abruptly before reaching the door and turned back towards his little brother. “What about Okulov?”

Mickey felt that name like poison now, every syllable like acid on his skin.

“One of the things on my list.”

Colin nodded.

“Alright well, text me when you know.”

Mickey swung open the door, leaning against the jamb as he eyed the security on the lawn.

“Will do.”

“And I’ll bring Mandy by soon, too. She wants to see you guys.”

Mickey felt himself smile.

“Of course she does.”

Mickey spent the rest of the evening on his phone on the couch while Ian slept the day away upstairs, barely keeping an eye on the TV as it played some rerun he didn’t give a single shit about. Instead, Mickey stared at the screen in his hands, scanning through pages and pages of information on bipolar disorder: how to manage it – how to look for symptoms and signs – and how to just… _be there_.

Mickey honestly wasn’t sure why he hadn’t done all of this a long time ago, but he supposed that before North Side, things just hadn’t seemed as serious as they did now; not that Mickey had never been serious about Ian Gallagher, it just felt like now that he had almost found out what it would have been like in a world without him, Mickey wanted to do everything in his power to make sure it never happened again – that the thought of leaving would never once willingly enter Ian’s thoughts.

Not if Mickey could help it.

So, Mickey kept scrolling, positive that if he just took an interest in absolutely everything about his fiancé, he could somehow find out all the answers – could somehow figure out the mystery of how to keep someone around forever.

There were pillows propped up behind Ian when Mickey finally strolled into the room that night; he was sound asleep sitting up, his mouth hanging open slightly in the dim light that radiated in from the window above their bed.

Mickey flipped on the lamp and listened to Ian’s soft breaths as he stripped down, leaving all his clothes in a pile on the floor as he tip-toed over to Ian’s side of the bed, the warm night air of summer not at all unpleasant.

Ian’s phone _pinged_ quietly then from the bedside table and the screen lit up – Lip’s name appearing in a grey banner – and Mickey remembered absently that Ian had promised to swing by.

Mickey glanced at the time; it was just after ten, and he knew there was absolutely no way Ian was going to get out of bed now, so he flipped the phone onto silent and pushed it further across the table.

They’d manage one more night without him.

“Hey,” he whispered, grabbing hold of Ian’s shoulders and shaking him gently. “Sleepy face.”

A tiny sound escaped Ian’s chest at the movement that made Mickey smile, and when Ian’s eyes fluttered open then, Mickey realized with a wave of contentment that he was going to get to watch those eyes flutter open every single morning for as long as they both could hold on together.

“…time is it?” Ian mumbled, freckled hand coming up to rub absently over his mouth.

“Just after ten.” Mickey reached for the pills on the table beside them. “You need to take your next dose.”

Ian inhaled a long, audible breath then before exhaling just as harshly – his eyes falling closed once more – and for a moment, Mickey worried he had somehow upset him again – had triggered him – but Ian grinned a little then in the half-light, and Mickey felt his heart slow.

“Okay.” Reaching a hand out blindly, Ian just held it there palm-up, waiting.

“I thought you said you didn’t want a fuckin’ babysitter,” Mickey huffed in amusement, opening the bottle and tipping two little white pills out into Ian’s hand.

“Yea well, I decided I’d rather have you take an interest in my fuckin’ problems than ignore them completely.”

Mickey smiled at that, because they had always been on the same page, hadn’t they?

“Good.”

“Mmm.” Ian sat up a little more, grabbing his glass of water and swallowing the pills in a single go before eyeing Mickey, who was still leaning over him. “Did I ever tell you that I love you?” he whispered then, gaze suddenly alert and unwavering, and Mickey felt himself swallow as his stomach twisted.

Fuck, Mickey loved him so goddamn much that it scared him more than anything, and the fact that he would never admit that to anybody out loud was the only thing keeping him from feeling like a fucking sissy about it, even though he knew it was probably completely normal for engaged people to feel that way.

“Yea I uhh, think you’ve mentioned it once or twice.” Mickey leaned all the way forward, kissing Ian’s sleepy mouth and feeling the coolness of the water against his lips before tearing himself away. “Hey I wanted to talk to you about a few things,” he added then, watching the way Ian’s gaze drifted hungrily over his naked body as Mickey stepped around to his side of the bed. “If you’re up for it?”

Sinking back into his pillows, Ian raised a curious eyebrow, never once taking those eyes off Mickey as he slid in beside him.

Mickey made a conscious effort to cover his junk with the sheet, so he could keep his own thoughts – as well as Ian’s – well under control; but the way Ian’s mouth dropped open a little at his sudden closeness made Mickey think it was going to be a struggle.

“ Whatta you wanna talk about?”

“A few things.”

Ian intertwined his hands over the bandages on his belly, but shifted slightly so he could face Mickey a little easier.

Even though it had been weeks, seeing those stark white bandages against Ian’s skin – and the purple bruising that ebbed outwards around their edges – made Mickey’s heart hurt.

“Spit it out, Milkovich,” Ian spat, grinning a little at Mickey’s hesitation.

Glancing across the room, Mickey looked at their tiny photograph, so small and seemingly insignificant in the grand scheme of things; but Mickey thought that picture probably said more about the two of them than this entire house and all its contents combined ever could.

“Alright. So first, Okulov.” Mickey gazed back at his fiancé, and saw the way Ian’s eyes narrowed at the hearing of that name – saw how his hands tightened a little on his belly.

“Tomorrow,” Ian said simply, and the way the word left his lips made Mickey think it wasn’t up for discussion. “We do it tomorrow.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

Mickey nodded once; he could live with that; besides, the sooner that shadow was no longer darkening their doorstep the better.

“Alright, I’ll let Colin know.”

“What else?” Ian’s voice was softer now that _that_ was out of the way, and he turned his ring around and around on his finger as he waited.

“The house,” Mickey ventured then, and knew this was going to be a much touchier subject.

Ian’s brows furrowed and his fingers stopped their twirling.

“What about it?  
“Do you wanna stay?”

Sitting up a little straighter suddenly, the look on Ian’s face changed to one of slight confusion, which only made Mickey want to laugh at him and tell him that wherever the fuck he wanted to go, Mickey would follow.

“Do I wanna stay in the house, you mean?”

Mickey snorted.

“Yea. The house, South Side; we don’t have to hide anymore, Ian,” he added, letting a smile tug up his lips so Ian would know he was okay either way. “If you want to go somewhere else – anywhere else – we can.”

Ian’s brows came even further together then as he looked at Mickey like he was a complete fucking idiot.

“Don’t you remember what you asked me?” he questioned, and of course Mickey remembered.

“Yes.”

“What did you ask me?”

Mickey recalled that distant morning they had sat in bed together, just like this.

“I asked you what it was you truly wanted.”

“Mhmm, and what did I say, Mickey?”

Mickey’s face went soft as he remembered Ian’s words, and even though he would have left without hesitation if that’s what Ian had wanted, the fact that he was choosing this place – was choosing what they had built here – made his heart beat faster.

“This,” Mickey answered, eyeing the entirety of the room and in turn, their home. “You said you wanted this.”

“Yea.” Ian leaned his head back, glancing away from Mickey and up towards the ceiling. “It’s all I ever wanted.”

Reaching his hand out, Mickey grabbed onto Ian’s so he could hold it and trace the freckles on his skin with his thumb, absently trying to count the small specks that covered the entirety of his body. Randomly, Mickey remembered then that people had taken special groupings of stars and called them constellations, and he wondered if one day – if he could somehow join all of Ian’s freckles together – if there would ever be a word beautiful enough to define it.

“Me, too,” Mickey admitted finally, causing Ian’s eyes to drift back to him. “I just didn’t know it until you.”

Ian’s face calmed at his words, his lip trembling the smallest bit, and Mickey thought maybe Ian was going to cry; but he didn’t, he just let a small smile pull up the corner of his mouth, his look of happiness the only thing in Mickey’s world that mattered.

“Come here,” Ian whispered, holding his hand out and motioning for Mickey to come towards him – to come closer so they could press their lips together and share _something_.

But _something_ was never going to be enough for Mickey, not right now. 

Reaching out, Mickey grabbed onto the sheet and threw it back, exposing Ian’s cock and bare legs, sending a jolt of arousal straight into his own dick and making it hard.

Ian’s eyes widened a little as Mickey pushed himself up then, shifting his body carefully until he was hovering over top of Ian, straddling his thighs an inch or two above his cock.

“Mickey, we…”

Mickey bent his head forward then and kissed him, cutting Ian off completely as he pushed him gently back against the headboard, forever aware of how close he was to Ian’s belly and his bandages.

“You trust me?” Mickey panted, biting into Ian’s bottom lip a little and pulling it as his hands slid up Ian’s arms, over his shoulders, and onto his face, letting their noses touch as he stared down into green eyes, and Mickey knew his own were all but begging him to say yes.

“Yes.” Ian’s breath was shaky as it brushed over Mickey’s mouth when he said this, and Mickey was sure Ian could read his mind then as he felt the goosebumps roll their way across Ian’s skin under his palms, the heat between them only rising.

~

_Fuck the doctor_ , Ian thought, what did the doctor know when it came to him and Mickey? Absolutely fuck all. Nobody knew anything when it came to himself and the man he loved, and Ian didn’t think he’d ever want it any other way.

Reaching up, Ian intertwined his fingers in Mickey’s hair and kissed him one more time, feeling the way Mickey held back just enough that he wouldn’t lose control and crash into him – crash into the wound he held carefully between his thighs.

Pulling back then, Mickey placed one more chaste kiss on Ian’s upper lip before shifting himself backwards, sliding his way down along Ian’s lower half at the same time Ian’s blood did, arriving in his cock in record time as Mickey shouldered his long legs open, just enough that he could lie on his stomach between them.

The pain meds were already kicking in, and the ache inside of him was giving way, being replaced by an overwhelming need that Ian was sure had never quite been as strong as it was now.

“I want you so fucking bad,” he sighed, but it came out as a half-moan as Mickey glanced up at him from where he lay between his thighs, his skin so pale against Ian’s thick red hair that he looked delicate and breakable.

Ian _wanted_ to break him – he wanted to break him _hard_ – and the fact that he couldn’t somehow only made Ian harder, his cock plumping up as Mickey grabbed hold of it then and touched his lips to his tip, and just the knowledge that they were going to have to go achingly slow made a drop of precum leak out against Mickey’s skin.

The last time they had fucked on the kitchen counter, it had been anything but gentle; now, Ian was preparing himself for quite the opposite.

“You’re my favourite taste,” Mickey whispered then – quiet, soft – and squeezed Ian’s cock with enough pressure that Ian felt his muscles contract with only a hint of pain before Mickey slipped it into his mouth.

Ian’s own mouth fell open at the sensation and his breath stuttered in his chest as he watched Mickey, his soaking lips traveling so far down his dick that they almost touched the pubes on his pelvis.

“Shit Mick, fuck.” Ian’s hand shot out then against his will, intertwining harshly in Mickey’s hair, causing Mickey to moan around his cock, those vibrations he had grown so used to feeling tingling out into his balls.

That high-pitched sound Ian knew Mickey loved escaped his chest then without warning, and Mickey actually smiled as he dragged his mouth up and over Ian’s veins, choking wetly as he went too far before sliding himself off and placing a kiss to the tip, letting the precum rub over his lips as he dragged Ian’s dick across them.

“I’m gunna go slow, okay,” Mickey said then, and it wasn’t a question.

Ian didn’t want him to go slow, he wanted Mickey to open his mouth and hold it there so he could thrust up into it and fuck his throat; but Mickey was in charge tonight, and Ian knew he was just along for the ride.

“Yea,” he panted in reply, his stomach muscles contracting as Mickey sucked his tip back between his lips. “Yea yea yea.” Ian could feel Mickey’s tongue twirling around his sensitive head, forcing more precum out, and watching Mickey’s throat bob as he swallowed it set a spark alight somewhere inside of Ian, and his body clenched in response, the pain within him long forgotten…

Mickey must have felt Ian’s dick pulse in his hand and in his mouth then, because he pulled off suddenly, sitting back onto his knees to look at Ian as he deliberately wiped his chin.

“Not yet,” he breathed, and Ian felt his balls draw up painfully.

“Fuck, I’m so close baby,” Ian all but whined, his eyes closing as his head fell back against the headboard, and he knew if he just reached out and touched himself, he would cum.

“Look at me,” Mickey demanded, voice completely gone with need, causing Ian’s eyes to fly open at once, finding Mickey’s there in the dim glow of the lamp. “Grab the lube.”

Ian felt his brows furrow and his cock twitch, that intensity within him only growing.

“Why?”

“Because.” Mickey crawled his way back over top of him then, hovering over Ian’s thighs once more as he straddled him, and Ian could feel the heat of Mickey’s hard dick on the moist skin of his own.

Ian didn’t ask any more questions, just reached to the table beside him and grabbed the bottle, setting it directly into tattooed hands.

“You gunna give _me_ a hand job now?” Ian asked, smiling a little as he watched Mickey’s comical brows furrow in concentration as he fiddled to get the lid open.

Ian hoped he’d say yes, because the thought of staring into Mickey’s eyes so close to his own as he jerked his cock between them was probably the hottest thing he could think of right now.

“No.” Mickey finally got the lube open, but that single word made Ian’s mood waver slightly.

“No?”

Mickey smiled, probably at the pouty sadness in his voice.

“I’m gunna do much better than that. Hold out your hand.”

Ian eyed him with only a hint of suspicion, but it was completely overshadowed by the feeling of Mickey’s dick rubbing against his own as Ian leaned forward then, palm upwards.

Mickey squirted a dollop onto the tips of Ian’s fingers before setting the lube down onto the sheets beside them.

“You want me to touch you?” Ian asked, his mouth falling back open as Mickey pushed himself up once more, his face coming so close to his own that Ian wanted to reach down at once, take hold of both of them together, and feel the slickness they could create as his massive hand fucked them against one another…

“Yea.” Mickey’s breath was hot in his mouth.

“Okay.” Ian closed the gap carefully, pressing his lips hungrily onto Mickey’s and reaching his hand downwards, but before he could grab hold of Mickey’s cock, Mickey’s hand shot out and stopped him.

“Not there,” he sighed against his tongue, and Ian’s eyes met his as Mickey shifted Ian’s hand down between his thick thighs then and placed his lubed up fingers against his asshole. “Here.”

“Fuck Mickey,” Ian whimpered, his dick twitching against his stomach as he felt Mickey’s body tremble.

This man was going to fucking kill him.

Ian pressed gently against his hole, their lips never parting, allowing hot, harsh pants to escape against their chins as Ian circled him.

“Fuck me with them,” Mickey begged, sitting back a little, and Ian got the hint.

“Stay still.” Ian worked his middle finger around and around, feeling how wet Mickey was becoming before increasing his pressure and sliding it in with ease, causing a deep, satisfied moan to escape Mickey’s chest as his head fell back and his eyes closed in pleasure. “Fuck you always look like a porn star,” Ian whined, reaching his free hand up and cupping Mickey’s chest, rolling his hardened nipple between his fingertips.

“Oh fuck that’s hot, Ian,” Mickey panted, both his own hands shooting out so he could brace himself against Ian’s shoulders.

Ian was completely fucking enraptured, watching the way Mickey began to raise himself up and down as he fucked back onto Ian’s finger, so wet there in the quiet that Ian could hear just what he was doing to him.

“I’m putting in another,” he breathed, his own cock steadily dripping onto his stomach as Mickey’s dick smacked beautifully against it with every downfall.

Mickey only nodded, so Ian slid his index finger in in answering, feeling Mickey tighten around him like a vice at the sudden expansion, another sound escaping his throat – higher-pitched this time – that let Ian know in an instant that Mickey was going to let Ian fuck him.

All the muscles in Ian’s lower half tensed at the thought, his cock getting even pinker than it already was as his breathing picked up of its own volition.

“I need your cock,” Mickey panted then – as if reading Ian’s mind – and his eyes reopened so they could find Ian at once. “Let me do it though.”

The fact that Mickey wanted to be so goddamn careful was only sending waves of pleasure throughout all that Ian was; but he ignored him completely for a moment then and continued his fingering, simply reveling in his feeling of control over him as he leaned up a little, pressing his forehead to Mickey’s and nodding against him in approval, curling his fingers over and over again, pressing Mickey’s prostate and stretching him open more with every pull. 

There was so much precum pooled on Ian’s stomach and upper thighs by the time he slid out that he was surprised they hadn’t drowned in it.

“How you wanna…?” Ian trailed off, eyeing the sheen of sweat on Mickey’s face as he breathed for a second, a small smile pulling up the corner of his mouth that made Ian’s heart flutter.

“Just like this.” Mickey pushed himself up once more, but this time he shifted himself so that he was on his feet suddenly, squatting over Ian with a hand on his freckled shoulder to steady himself.

“Let me.” Ian reached out, about to take his own cock into his hand and guide himself in, but Mickey stopped him.

“No. Imma take care of you.” Mickey’s voice had gone so quiet that it was mostly breath, which only made Ian’s hairs rise as Mickey kissed him once more, his tongue forcing its way in between his lips again as it caressed against his own, and Ian didn’t think kissing Mickey Milkovich would ever get old.

“What the fuck did I do?” Ian asked then, breaking away from Mickey’s mouth, but it came out all wrong because Mickey had taken Ian’s cock into his hand then without warning and began guiding it back towards his opening.

Mickey glanced up at him through heavy lids, dark lashes framing his blue eyes so perfectly Ian could have cried from nothing more than the sight of them.

“What?”

“What the fuck did I do to deserve you?” Ian whimpered – correctly this time – and his mouth fell open all the way then and a grunt escaped his lips as Mickey just smiled in answering and pushed the head of Ian’s dick inside of him. “Oh shiiit Mickey.” Ian’s voice had never gone so high, and the pressure squeezing around him was so intense and euphoric that it took everything Ian had not to thrust up into Mickey – _hard_ – and fuck him until his staples tore.

“Lay back,” Mickey sighed, pushing Ian’s chest gently until he was back against the pillows, his cock halfway inside his ass.

The feeling had been absent from Ian’s life for almost a month, and though he had remembered the sensation while he slept – while he daydreamed – absolutely nothing compared to the real thing.

“I’m gunna cum so fuckin’ fast, Mick…”

“Good.” Mickey sunk himself down then, another low groan escaping his throat that made Ian’s body tingle from his nipples to his fucking calves as Mickey took every fucking inch of him to the hilt and stayed there, letting himself adjust as Ian’s cock pulsed.

“Christ don’t move!” Ian begged, laying a hand on Mickey’s chest – over his initials and his heart. “I don’t wanna cum yet.”

“Why not?”

“I wanna watch you.”

Mickey’s heavy eyes stared back at him – so intense that Ian knew there were words being spoken between them without them having to say anything at all – as he sat perfectly still, waiting for a minute, then two, until Ian finally nodded his consent, their gaze never once breaking.

Lifting himself up slowly, slowly, Mickey nearly let Ian’s cock slide out entirely before he fell back down just as leisurely, grinding down onto Ian’s dick in the most sickeningly slow pulses that Ian thought were surely going to fucking kill him.

“Fuck you’re so big,” Mickey whimpered, rolling his hips in slow motions so Ian would hit him in the perfect spot, and Ian felt the movements all the way up his spine.

“God just like that.” Ian let both his hands find Mickey’s bent knees, trailing them softly over his skin, causing Mickey’s own hands to slide up to Ian’s shoulders, holding himself steady, steady, as his blue eyes gazed down, watching to make sure his cock didn’t hit Ian’s bandages in the wrong way.

“That good?” Mickey picked his pace up only slightly, purposefully squeezing the muscles in his ass as he dragged Ian out of him, and Ian felt that long-absent heat start to form inside of him as the sound of wetness rang out like fucking church bells.

“Don’t fucking stop Mickey,” he begged, trembled, his eyes closing again as he focused on nothing more than Mickey tightening around him – the way his hips swiveled all the way down onto his pelvis and his balls – and holy fuck, Ian was going to go off like an atom bomb.

Ian turned his head in reaction, biting into Mickey’s hand that rested on his shoulder beside him – just needing to taste him – causing Mickey’s ring to clink harshly against Ian’s teeth.

“Cum in me,’ Mickey whined then, his grip tightening under Ian’s mouth, and Ian only noticed absently for a second that Mickey wasn’t touching himself.

“Don’t stop Mickey, fuck, don’t stop.” Ian’s words were coming out as muttled breaths, his abdomen tightening as Mickey edged him closer, closer, and the pain he felt only added to the intense feeling of fucking _everything_.

Suddenly Mickey leaned forward, his face finding Ian’s ear at once as he sucked his lobe into his mouth, the slightly shifted angle causing a whine to escape his lips directly into Ian’s ear, and that was enough.

“Oh fuuuck,” Ian cried, his eyes squeezing shut so hard he saw stars, and Mickey sunk all the way down in answering, letting Ian go so deep into him that Ian felt like his entire body was enshrouded in all that Mickey was as he came then, his balls pulling up, his thighs trembling under Mickey’s weight, causing Mickey’s dick to tremble against his stomach and his orgasm to only increase. “Fuck I’m still cumming,” Ian panted, biting into the skin of Mickey’s hand as three more spasms racked him, and by the time that explosion of pleasure had ebbed out into his toes – making them curl – and Ian reopened his eyes, Mickey was sitting back against his thighs, watching his face so intently that Ian was sure he knew exactly what it was Mickey saw when he looked at him:

Love.

Love that Ian knew somehow transcended any love that had ever come before it.

~

Mickey looked back at Ian, the look in his green eyes so intense that Mickey was sure he knew exactly what it was Ian saw when he looked at him:

Love.

Love that Mickey knew somehow transcended any love that would ever come after it.

“I want you to cum on me,” Ian panted then, his face and chest so goddamn flushed that Mickey had been sure he was going to kill him if he had thrust down onto him anymore.

Always one to give Ian what he wants, Mickey grabbed hold of himself at that – shifting his weight slightly so that all of Ian still filled him to the brim – and sat still, feeling Ian’s cum start to slip its way out as he dragged his fingers through the massive pool of precum Ian had milked out of him and fingered some of it onto his own cock, massaging it down over his head to his base as Ian’s gaze dropped to watch him do it.

“Take the pillowcase off the pillow,” Mickey panted then, his eyes closing as he tightened his grip, feeling Ian’s still-hard cock stretching him open in all the best ways.

“What?”

“Take the case…off the pillow.” Mickey used his free hand to motion haphazardly to the pillow on his side of the bed.

When Ian didn’t move, Mickey’s eyes fluttered back open; Ian was staring at him with a slightly confused look, so Mickey just raised his eyebrows at him instead of explaining and swiveled his hips slightly, bringing Ian back to life and getting him moving – his cock rubbing against Mickey’s prostate.

“Here.” Ian reached out finally at the movement and tore the pillow free, handing Mickey the case.

Grabbing it, Mickey laid it gently over Ian’s stomach, covering his bandages.

“I’m not changing those fuckers,” he moaned, a sudden bloom of pleasure blossoming in his pelvis and his dick. “But I’m still…gunna cum on you.”

Ian’s eyes widened then in understanding as his mouth fell back open, breath still harsh and hot, and that confusion in his eyes turned instantly to a half-lidded gaze that made him look hypnotized.

“Fuck yes, cum on me,” Ian encouraged then, his fingers coming back out to play with Mickey’s nipples, causing Mickey’s eyes to fall closed again at once, the pleasure shooting through his nerve-endings like electricity.

“God that’s hot.” Mickey rolled his hips again and again, feeling Ian brush against his sweet spot ruthlessly, making his balls draw up and his pelvis clench with heat, the sound escaping his ass so obscene that Mickey felt his cock pulse.

Without warning, Ian’s hand was on him then, pushing Mickey’s grip out of the way so he could take over, and it was all Mickey could do to lean back a little and arch his spine upwards as he braced himself against the bed behind him.

“Fuck you’re so perfect,” Ian panted, his hand increasing its pressure and speed, and Mickey was about to blow.

“I’m gunna cum, baby,” Mickey whined – his hips automatically thrusting down onto Ian – and as always, he didn’t need to say or do anything else whatsoever, because Ian knew him better than anyone, and his massive hand slid directly to the tip of Mickey’s cock at that – just the way he liked it – tugging at it with such force as his dick stretched him open completely that Mickey actually yelled as he came.

“Ffuuuck!” The word was so loud that if the house beside them hadn’t been vacant, Mickey was sure they would have heard it, and he was also sure he wouldn’t have cared as his thighs grasped around Ian’s waist – shaking apart completely – and the whole time, Mickey was still entirely aware of the fragile gift he held between them.

“So perfect,” Ian repeated, grabbing onto Mickey’s shoulders and pulling him forward, gently. “Come here.”

“Mmm,” was all Mickey could manage as Ian’s mouth found his once more, and the sudden passion and longing written on his lips was easy for Mickey to read.

They sat connected like that for minutes, simply feeling each other’s bodies as they moved against one another – hands trailing over skin and hair, their tongues working themselves over lips, jaws, and ears.

Ian’s cock never shifted a hair out from Mickey’s ass, and Mickey thought that if they stayed like that, they’d consume each other whole and simply disappear into thin air, leaving nothing behind but the moisture on the window that would prove that once, they had existed.

“Was there anything else you needed to talk to me about?” Ian asked then, finally breaking away as their breath came hot and fast between them.

Mickey grinned, glancing down at the pillowcase covered in his own cum and pulling it free, tossing it carelessly onto the floor.

“Just one other thing.”

“Which is?” Ian pulled back slightly, his arms sliding over Mickey’s shoulders so his hands could twist through the hair at the back of his head, and despite not being as close as he knew he could be because of the staples in Ian’s skin, Mickey thought this was just fine anyways.

“The wedding.”

Ian stopped his petting, his fingers stilling as his gaze found Mickey’s. Their faces were so close that Mickey was afraid his eyes were going to cross permanently as Ian just stared back into them, a thousand different emotions crossing over his features that caused Mickey’s heart to pound hard against his ribs.

“I don’t care,” Ian said then, his head shaking the smallest bit; it was quiet, and Ian must have seen the way Mickey’s face twisted. “No, I mean I don’t _care_ , Mickey,” he repeated, flicking the tip of Mickey’s nose with his own. “Today, tomorrow, next month, ten years from now, I don’t care. As long as you’re right here now, I don’t care about anything else.”

Mickey felt his breath catch in his throat – felt his heart slam – as he grabbed a handful of curly red hair, forcing Ian’s head back a little so he could kiss him quietly once, twice, and Mickey thought he knew what _home_ felt like.

“I was thinking maybe my birthday? That gives us a whole month...”

Ian simply nodded, grasping the back of Mickey’s neck to pull him back against his lips.

“Deal.”

Mickey also thought Ian would always be his greatest gift.

~

A dull ache awoke Ian in the morning; he was still propped up against the pillows and the headboard, but Mickey was lying down beside him now, his face nestled against the side of Ian’s thigh, his arm draped carelessly over his legs.

Reaching down, Ian laid his hand gently on Mickey’s head in the early sunlight, combing his fingers softly through thick, black hair, causing Mickey’s eyes to flutter just a little in dreaming.

“I love you,” Ian whispered, knowing full-well Mickey was asleep and couldn’t hear him, but he didn’t think that would ever stop him from saying it, just like he knew without having to ask that Mickey had whispered those same words to him when he had been lost to the world for eight whole days.

Glancing at his phone, Ian saw that it was just after eight, and there were a handful of missed texts and calls on the screen from Lip.

“Shit,” he huffed, grabbing his phone; he had totally forgotten he had promised to stop by.

**Lip: Yo you comin?**

**Lip: Yo!**

**_Missed Call: Lip_**

**_Missed Call: Lip_ **

**** **Lip: Alright douchebag did Mickey manage to get you killed this time?**

A wave of annoyance and defensiveness crashed through Ian at that last one, causing him to eye Mickey on the sheets beside him; Ian had tried to explain in the hospital – on more than one occasion – that he himself had been just as responsible – if not more so – for his current predicament than Mickey was – that it had actually been Mickey who saved him, in more ways than one. At the end of the day, Ian knew his siblings understood that, but he also knew that if anyone could hold a grudge, it was the fucking Gallagher’s. 

**Sorry** , he typed back, rubbing a tired hand along his bandages as the throb worsened. **Meds have been readjusted and I fell asleep.**

Ian didn’t add the part about Mickey riding him ‘til his staples nearly tore.

Setting his phone back down, Ian grabbed the bottle of pain pills from beside him and tipped his dosage out; he should have set his alarm for an earlier time but, well, he had had better things to do.

His phone pinged then.

**Lip: Shit you got readjusted again? You ok?**

Ian rolled his eyes, but smiled a little.

**Yea. Just tired, moody. You know how it goes. But I’ll pop by later?**

**Lip: Sounds good, what time? We’ll take Fred to Oopy’s.**

Like a sudden stab to the chest, Ian remembered all at once that he had plans today, and it sent a wave of nerves and nausea crashing through him, the idea of seeing Okulov’s face again – the idea of holding a gun to his head and pulling the trigger – making him feel abruptly on edge and wary.

Of all the things Ian had considered becoming in his lifetime, a killer had never been one of them; but he already _was_ a killer, and he knew it – he had ended two lives inside that dim, cold warehouse before without even hesitating; yet he also knew that that had been for his own wellbeing – for self-defense.

Chewing on the inside of his cheek, Ian eyed the tiny photograph across from the end of the bed, looking at the way his small, round face smiled back at him, and he wondered if his former self was judging him for what he had become, or if that was just his mind playing tricks on him.

“You alright?” Mickey mumbled then, his breath hot against Ian’s thigh, tickling the hairs that grew there.

Ian glanced down at him; Mickey’s eyes were still closed and he hadn’t moved, yet somehow, he knew.

Mickey always knew.

“I’m scared,” Ian admitted, because Mickey had asked him not to shut him out, and he no longer planned to.

Mickey’s eyes peeled opened then, and he tilted his head up to look at Ian, his brows furrowing in a beam of sunlight as his hand began a lazy caress of Ian’s leg. 

“About today?”

“Yea.”

“Mmm.” Mickey laid his head back down like he was exhausted, and Ian felt his dark eyelashes flutter against his skin as they closed again. “If you don’t want to do it Ian, you don’t have to. I’ll gladly do it for you.”

Ian felt himself smile, his hand going back to Mickey’s head, thumbing his temple as if it were fragile.

“I want to,” he confessed, a huff of amusement escaping his nose. “Shit Mickey, I do want to kill him myself; but what if…” he trailed off, his thumb moving down to Mickey’s eyebrow so he could feel the strength of the bone beneath.

“What if what?”

“What if I can’t?”

There was still the hint of sadness and familiar darkening moods hanging around Ian’s edges, and he worried he could slip at any time – could slide right back into a depression that would drag him down into those dark, stormy seas for way too long.

Now that he was sitting in the quiet – now that he had time to consider it and understand it when it was all so close at hand – Ian worried that willingly taking a life because he _wanted_ to might send him to a place he couldn’t ever come back from.

Mickey pushed himself up beside him then, leaning sideways against the headboard so he could face Ian head-on, his bright eyes narrowing with affection and worry.

“Ian, stop.” Mickey reached a hand out, patting Ian’s cheek as a subtle grin tugged up the corner of his mouth. “I know I can’t tell you not to worry with everything that’s going on with you right now, but honestly, whatever happens today, Okulov won’t be breathing by the time the sun sets. Whether you do it, or I do it, or Colin does it, or Fergal does it, it doesn’t matter. All that matters is the outcome.”

Ian breathed, leaning his head into Mickey’s palm; the nausea was receding, and so, too, were the nerves.

“Okay.”

“Okay,” Mickey whispered, leaning in to kiss Ian softly before pulling away. “I’m gunna make coffee. Tell Lip I’ll drop you off around five. It’ll be good to see them after…” Mickey waved his hand nonchalantly, encompassing the single task that darkened their day yet brightened it at the same time.

“How did you know I was talking to Lip?” Ian asked, changing the subject as he smiled at his fiancé, who climbed out of bed stark naked, his skin extra pale in the sunshine.

“’Cause your phone was blowing up the whole time I was riding you,” Mickey smirked. “I just thought it could wait.”

Ian felt those words inch through him as heat worked its way up his chest into his face.

“That’s hot, Milkovich,” he teased, and wished Mickey would ride him again right now.

“I know.” Mickey turned then and disappeared down the hallway, and Ian listened as he descended the first few stairs before apparently changing his mind suddenly and stomping his way back up, reappearing in the doorway.

“What’re you…?” Ian trailed off as Mickey strolled directly across the room, around the end of bed, and stood at Ian’s side, staring down into his eyes for only a moment before crouching down beside him in the early-morning heat.

There was a flutter in Ian’s chest then as Mickey laid a hand softly to the side of Ian’s waist and leaned forward, gently pressing his lips to Ian’s bandage and kissing it like the touch of a feather before pulling away to meet Ian’s gaze.

“You always used to kiss mine,” Mickey admitted then, voice soft as he patted the scar on his own thigh. “I think it helped.”

Ian didn’t say anything else as Mickey stood then and strolled back out; but he felt the tears burn behind his eyes when he thought about him, and how lucky he was that he was on the receiving end of the quietest, most gentle parts of Mickey that were forever hidden away from the world.

Mickey was a physical representation of all that they were as people and the lives they had been given: hard, tough, unwavering to the outside world; but behind closed doors – behind the ribs within their chests – there was a tender calmness that drove them forward when nobody else was around to see.

If being blessed was something people could be, Ian thought that he was.

~

Mickey gripped the wheel with his left hand, drifting down the freeway as Ian sat stock-still beside him; Mickey could feel the tension rolling off Ian’s body, and it only made him press the gas harder, sliding his way between the late-afternoon traffic as they headed for the warehouse, his eyes never leaving the road in front of him.

Ian’s fingers were intertwined with his own, as always, but it was different this time – it was like Ian was holding onto him like a lifeline instead of for the simple act of just needing to feel him, so Mickey tightened his grip out of instinct, trying his best to take away some of whatever the Hell it was Ian was feeling.

“Promise me something?” Ian said suddenly, his voice firm in the hushed quiet of the Audi.

Mickey glanced towards him briefly, his own teeth on edge as he took the turn-off then, the industrial district rising up around them as that all-too-familiar graffiti sped past their windows.

“What?”

“Promise me this is the last time we ever come here.” Ian was staring at him – Mickey could feel his gaze boring into the side of his head – and he also felt the seriousness in those words.

That was a promise Mickey could make, and it was a promise he had already made in his own mind before Ian had even spoken the words aloud.

“I promise.”

Ian’s fingers tightened in his own.

“Good.”

Colin and Iggy were already there, their black Range Rovers covered in a layer of dust from the back road and the empty lot that led them here. There was also a handful of others SUV’s parked haphazardly at the side of the abandoned building – vehicles Mickey knew belonged to Fergal and his own men, who were still hunkered down in Chicago at Mickey’s behest, keeping an eye on their Russian prisoner while Colin slowly brought the Milkovich empire out of the media shit-storm that had surrounded them since the funeral.

“You ready?” Mickey asked, turning the car off before facing Ian there in the tinted afternoon sun.

Ian’s face was immovable, a look of quiet determination on it that Mickey had only see a few times before, and something about it set his insides on fire.

“Yea.” Ian opened his door at that, carefully sliding himself out, and Mickey followed, watching the way Ian pushed himself up to his full height, like he refused to walk in there and stand in front of Okulov as a lesser man.

Mickey thought it was actually quite the opposite. Ian had climbed out of Hell; had faced his own demons; had taken a bullet; had nearly died; and yet, he had still come out clean on the other side. Now, he was about to finish it once and for all.

Mickey didn’t think a better man existed anywhere.

“Come on.” Mickey turned, heading for the back door, and tried errantly to remember the way the metal handle felt under his palm, because he was never going to feel it again.

Snaking their way through the warehouse, Mickey led Ian carefully between the cisterns and empty tanks that still held nothing more than dust; but instead of silence this time, Mickey could hear the low voices of the people he trusted most, their bodies coming into view as they weaved their way towards the back, and the bright, familiar light from the office that poured out around them was almost like a beacon, Mickey thought, shining a light and pointing them to exactly where they needed to go.

“Hey, Mick,” Colin said then, stepping away from the office door, his black suit immaculately pressed. Toyov – the Russian who had helped them – was behind him, and Mickey nodded at him in acknowledgement before eyeing his big brother.

“Hey.”

“Ian.” Colin stepped towards his soon-to-be-brother-in-law, Mickey’s eyes following him as he went.

“Hey, Colin,” Ian sighed, and smiled a little through his inner turmoil, but Mickey saw that it was genuine. “Kinda missed ya.”

Colin snorted at that and reached out, lightly punching the bandages at Ian’s stomach.

“How you feelin’?”

“Yea, alright I suppose, considering.” Ian’s eyes drifted to the glass of the office, knowing full well that Okulov was in there somewhere, waiting.

Mickey watched Ian’s face intently as Colin followed Ian’s gaze, and Mickey saw his brother swallow from his peripherals.

“He’s all yours,” Colin said then, like he was giving Ian permission to do whatever he wanted, and something about that made Mickey feel possessive suddenly, like anyone would be insane not to want the red-head standing next to him, and Mickey silently dared anyone to even try and take what was his.

Ian’s entire demeanor shifted at those words as they left Colin’s lips – it hardened somehow – and Mickey wondered just what the Hell he was thinking about.

Fergal and Iggy both appeared from the office then, stepping out into the open with their heads pressed together in light-hearted conversation as they laughed about something – probably something brutal and violent, Mickey thought, which made him smile.

The Irishman’s gaze met Mickey’s then – Fergal’s eyebrows shooting up as if he were surprised to see him there – before it purposefully travelled down over Mickey’s body, drinking him in.

Automatically, Ian stepped closer to Mickey, though whether it was on purpose or not, Mickey didn’t know.

“Mickey Milkovich!” Fergal exclaimed, striding cockily towards him in the white light, causing Mickey to flip him the bird.

“The fuck you so happy about, you Irish dick?”

Fergal’s smile widened as he shot his hands out, motioning towards the office and the Russian on death row inside.

“Because it’s a beautiful day!”

“Jesus you’re a sick fuck sometimes,” Mickey snorted, though he kind of loved it.

“Yea, well.” Fergal shrugged, and Mickey noticed then the fresh tattoo on his hand – a small star inked red amongst the black lines and dots that represented the lives he had taken.

A star for his uncle – a star for a Boss.

“You got a gun?” Iggy asked then, leaning back against the doorjamb and crossing his arms as he pulled Mickey from his reverie.

“Hmm?”

“Do you have a gun?”

“Oh, yea.” Mickey glanced back at Ian, who was chewing mercilessly on the inside of his lip, his eyes still on the reinforced glass as if willing Okulov to die so he didn’t actually have to be the one to do it. “Okay?” Mickey asked him then – absently, calmly – causing Ian’s gaze to drift towards him finally as ten or so heavyweights stood around them in the shadows.

Ian simply nodded, his resolve hardening.

“Okay.” Ian held his hand out, and Mickey reached into the back of his jeans, pulling out his Glock one final time and setting it gently into Ian’s hand. This time, Ian took it, and no gunshots rang out around them to nearly bring Mickey’s world crashing down around him.

Everyone went quiet suddenly and stepped back, allowing Mickey to stroll into the office first, Ian hot on his heels.

Okulov was strapped to the same chair Grekov had once been tied to; his head was hanging down against his chest, and there was blood all over him, his face cut and bruising in more places than one. If it weren’t for the ragged breaths escaping his lips, Mickey would have assumed he was already dead.

Going forward, Mickey knelt down in front of him, his hand shooting out to slap that Russian face with enough force that the sound hissed out around them.

“Hey,” he spat, grabbing onto Vasily’s chin and squeezing it, forcing his swollen eyes to meet his own. “There’s someone here who wants to talk to you.”

Okulov grinned a little, chipped teeth showing suddenly between split lips, and Mickey could see the blood coagulated on his gums.

“Mikhailo,” Okulov sighed then, and leaned over, spitting a wad of that blood onto the floor by Mickey’s feet. “How’s Curtis?”

The way he smiled around that name made Mickey’s blood fucking boil, and he was _this_ close to reaching back and taking the gun from Ian’s hand and blasting a hole through that bloodied Russian skull himself, until he remembered where they were, who was standing behind him, and how fucking pathetic Okulov was in the moment.

Mickey laughed instead – a low, satisfied chuckle – and patted Okulov’s cheek again like he was an old friend.

“How about you ask him yourself?” Mickey stood up then, stepping back beside his fiancé as Okulov’s head finally lifted at his words, his gaze settling abruptly on Ian, who stepped forward a little, free hand going absently to his stomach and resting on his bandages.

The look on Okulov’s face was satisfying, but Mickey knew it paled in comparison to the satisfaction he was going to feel watching Ian kill him.

“Vasily,” Ian spat, and his voice was steady, though Mickey could hear the slight hesitation behind it.

“Shit. I hoped you were dead.” Okulov leaned back in the chair, his legs going wide as if he couldn’t care less about what was going on.

“I almost was.”

The bile in Mickey’s stomach rose when he heard Ian then, and his anger only increased; he wanted to hold Ian’s hand suddenly – he wanted to reach out and touch him so he could be a part of him when he did this; but Mickey knew better than anyone that Ian had to do this alone – that it was _his_ burden to bear, and Mickey could only be there for support.

He couldn’t hold his hand through it – literally, or metaphorically.

Stepping away then, Mickey walked back until his spine hit the doorjamb, and he could feel the presence of everyone else behind him, watching Ian through the open door – through the glass – just waiting for the inevitable.

“Get it over with, then,” Okulov hissed, pulling suddenly against the restraints, making Ian flinch.

Mickey moved forward the smallest bit in response, but Colin’s hand was on him in an instant, holding him back.

“Let him try, Mick,” he whispered in his ear, and Mickey breathed.

Stepping towards the chair then, Ian held the Glock steady in his hand as he expertly chambered a round and raised it, pressing the muzzle directly between Vasily’s brown eyes, finger sliding its way up and over the trigger.

It was dead silent, and all Mickey could hear was the breathing of all the people behind him, and maybe the sound of their quickening hearts.

Mickey’s own heart nearly stopped beating entirely as he watched Ian, his whole body vibrating as he held his breath; he knew everyone else was eyeing Okulov – waiting for his head to explode – but Mickey’s eyes never once left Ian’s face, looking for any sign of doubt or hesitation.

If he saw it, Mickey would put an end to it at once.

Ian shifted his weight forward, pressing the gun even harder into Vasily’s skin, making the man wince a little in pain.

“ _What are you waiting for_!?” Okulov yelled then, pushing his own head against the muzzle, and Mickey at least gave him credit for going out like a gangster.

“I can’t, Mickey,” Ian whispered suddenly – eyes never leaving that fucking Russian as his tiny voice broke through the tension – and Mickey went forward at once, striding directly over to Ian and taking the gun from his hands.

“Can’t even fuckin’ do it,” Vasily hissed, making all the blood that had been boiling within Mickey calm instantly, everything settling into a crystal clear focus.

Mickey turned on a dime – kneeling down in front of Okulov once more – and lifted the gun, pressing the muzzle under his chin and aiming it upwards towards his brain as he pushed it in – _hard_ – and Mickey made sure he was looking him directly in the eyes.

“If there’s something he can’t do,” Mickey spat, his voice so goddamn quiet that it almost sounded foreign. “Then I’ll do it for him.”

Mickey pulled the trigger, and he didn’t even flinch at the sound; he only stared into those eyes as Vasily Okulov’s life and memory dissipated into nothing.

~

Heart hammering in his chest, Ian watched Mickey stand, and he didn’t even look back in Ian’s direction before striding over to the doorway where Colin was and placing his beloved Glock into his brother’s hands.

“It’s finished,” Mickey said then, and that was it.

Colin simply nodded, took the gun, and shoved it inside his jacket.

Ian didn’t look away from Mickey once; not when he had taken the Glock from his own hands; not when he had whispered those final words to Okulov that made him semi-hard despite the situation; not when he had pulled the trigger; not when Mickey turned then and walked out of that room without saying another word to anyone, Ian following close behind; and not even when they climbed back into the car and headed directly towards South Side in a euphoric haze of speed and freedom.

At first, Ian had felt weak: staring into Vasily’s eyes – warring with himself whether this was actually the person he wanted to be – while an entire entourage of people who took lives like they were candies in a bowl watched on impatiently.

Ian had stood there – wavering – recalling the first time he had killed anyone and how he had worried so much about losing himself that he had actually pulled away from Mickey, absolutely certain that he was heading into his darkness, and that Mickey didn’t deserve to be dragged down with him. That was the single thought that had stopped Ian from pulling the trigger – the idea of losing himself and in turn, losing Mickey; but when Mickey hadn’t even hesitated to take that burden from him today – when he had taken that gun and that life without even a hint of reservation or doubt – Ian no longer felt weak, but strong, like whatever weaknesses he thought he _did_ have, Mickey only reinforced, like steel beams welded over the most tired, crumbling parts of himself.

Mickey took his darkened pieces and made them shine.

“It’s actually done…” Ian sighed then, graffiti flying past them in a blur as the realization crashed down onto him all at once, and his ribs felt like they were going to burst apart.

The corner of Mickey’s mouth pulled up while Ian watched him, and his fingers squeezed Ian’s hand harder as he drove like a bat out of Hell – like someone who no longer had anything holding him back.

“Yea. It’s done.”

Ian finally tore his eyes away and glanced out the windshield, staring directly ahead into their future as they left their past behind in a bloody cloud of dust.

“Take me to see my family, Mick,” he sighed then, and the car lurched forward as Mickey hit the gas to the floor.

**

Lying back on the table, Ian eyed his brother, the warm, humid air of mid-August making him sweat even though his shirt was off.

“Okay okay,” Lip huffed in annoyance, scooting his chair a little closer to Ian. “I won’t talk you out of it; besides, it can’t be worse than the tits on your back.”

“Shut up,” Ian laughed, the sound of the tattoo machine whirring to life suddenly, and he braced himself, holding in his chuckle so he was completely still.

“Ready?” the artist asked, and Ian just nodded before the harsh sting of the needle dug into the skin of his chest, right above his heart.

“So Mickey doesn’t know?” Lip inquired, leaning over top of Ian as he laid flat, glancing at the tattooist’s hands as she worked.

“Nah, gunna surprise him tomorrow after the wedding.”

“That why you told him no sex ‘til after?”

The tattooist laughed a little at that, and Ian hoped she wouldn’t fuck up.

“Yup.”

“Nice.”

Ian closed his eyes briefly to the pain, though it was nothing in comparison to the constant throb and ache of a healing gunshot wound to the gut.

“Hey you invited Kev and V tonight yea?” Ian asked then, though he didn’t know why, it wasn’t like they would ever be forgotten.

“’Course.”

“Good.”

“So you don’t know what Mickey’s brothers have planned for tonight?” Lip inquired, raising his eyebrows as he gazed down at Ian, his legs bouncing up and down like he needed a smoke, even though the nicotine patches were back.

“Not really, I just know their business colleague is flying in from New York to surprise him.” Ian thought about Fergal then, and just what kind of bullshit he could possibly conjure up for Mickey’s bachelor party. Ian wasn’t worried though, after all, even if he didn’t know the Irishman that well, he knew Mickey.

“My money’s on male strippers,” Lip added, and Ian bit back another laugh.

“Yea, mine too.”

“Hey, I could have gotten you strippers!” Lip smiled, leaning back in his chair. “But you just asked for a good old fashioned Gallagher party.”

Strippers or not, Ian didn’t think anything would ever beat a good old fashioned Gallagher party.

“I’ll bet you a hundred bucks Kev is stripping by the end of the night anyways.”

Lip snorted.

“And Carl.”

“And Carl.”

~

Mickey whistled long and low as he stepped off the elevator into a long marble hallway on the top floor, two ornate doors on opposite ends.

“Jesus, which one’s your place?” he asked, glancing at Colin, who nodded to the door on the left.

“That one.”

“Guess you’re movin’ on up in the world, eh?”

“Thanks to you and that gangly ginger.” Colin winked at him, and made his way towards the door.

The penthouse suite was new, and Mickey hadn’t seen it yet; but it had reinforced security and three spare rooms for heavyweights to stay inside the condo for Colin’s protection, and that was all Mickey really cared about.

Iggy had moved into Mickey’s old place, and although it wasn’t as tight with security as his siblings would have liked – especially now that he was Second to Chicago’s most notorious Kingpin – Iggy didn’t altogether give a shit.

He always lived for the thrill.

Colin pushed open the door, and Mickey automatically reached behind him for his Glock that was no longer there as a loud chorus of _‘SURPRISE!’_ rang out around him.

“Jeeesus Christ,” Mickey huffed, a wave of annoyance flooding through him as he eyed the massive, all-glass room full of people.

Fuck he hated surprises, but hated being the centre of attention even more.

“Hey you!” Mandy sang, scurrying up to him to drape her arms around his neck with a smile on her face that had to hurt from how big it was, and Mickey could tell she was already a few wines deep.

“Hey.”

“Are you pissed?” she asked, but smiled anyways, obviously knowing the answer.

“Yes.”

“Good!”

“Mikhailo!” an Irish voice said then, and Mickey couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his lips as he turned, his sister scurrying away to yell at someone about a cake as Fergal Maguire snaked his way through a crowd of people Mickey didn’t even know.

“Fuck me, who invited you?” he spat, but stuck his hand out anyways, letting Fergal take it and embrace him a little.

“I invited my-fucking-self.”

“Wouldn’t doubt it.”

Fergal laughed at that, bringing a bottle of beer up to his lips and chugging half of it in a single go. Mickey was positive that another dot or two had been tattooed onto his hand in the few weeks since Maguire had returned to New York, and Mickey almost wanted to inquire just who he had taken care of; but he bit his tongue, reminding himself that he was no longer in that line of business, and was glad of it.

“You think I’d miss your birthday? Or your wedding?” Fergal added, his words rolling like Irish green hills, and Mickey had actually kind of missed it.

“Kinda hoped you would…”

“Fuck off.” Fergal reached out and punched Mickey’s shoulder, tattoos peeking out from the cuff of his button-down. “So how’s Ian?” he asked then, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as music started up suddenly from surround-sound speakers, causing Mickey to roll his eyes in exasperation at how fucking upbeat it was.

“Great! Still healing but, he’s getting there.”

“He’s a tough fucker.”

Mickey huffed in amusement at that and nodded; he wasn’t wrong – not in the least.

The crowd beside them suddenly parted then as Iggy came out of nowhere, pushing his way through, clearly half-wasted and grinning like a fool as he shoved a glass of Scotch into Mickey’s hand.

“Drink all of this,” he slurred, squeezing his arm around Mickey’s neck. “I filled ‘er up to the top for you, little brother.”

Mickey glanced down at his tumbler and snorted; the amber liquid was basically spilling over the brim.

“Yea sure thing, Ig.” Mickey couldn’t help but smile as Iggy turned then and stumbled back towards some group of women Mickey only kind of recognized from the club.

“So how’s the sex?” Fergal asked abruptly, causing Mickey’s eyebrows to nearly hit the roof as he stared back at him. “Can Ian manage with the pain?”

“The fuck?”

“Oh come on Mickey, we’re basically best friends at this point, isn’t that what friends ask about?”

“I’ll tell you what best friends ask about,” Mickey huffed, and gave him the finger before taking a massive swig of his whiskey that almost made him gag; there was no way this was just Scotch, and Mickey wondered just how fucked Iggy had been when he poured it.

Fergal laughed, though Mickey wasn’t sure if it was from his comment or the look of disgust on his face.

“Well if Ian’s not doing the job, you know who to call.”

“Fuck off, you dick.” Despite himself, Mickey laughed. “It’s never gunna happen.”

“The Irish are a people of dreams, Mickey!” Fergal said then, walking backwards suddenly towards Colin and a crowd of people. “You should know! Gallagher is an Irish name!”

Mickey just shook his head as Fergal disappeared into a throng of people, a small feeling of happiness beginning to overtake his annoyance as he glanced around.

~

Lifting his shirt up for the tenth time that night, Ian showed off Mickey’s initials, inked forever into his pale, freckled skin over his heart, just like his own were over Mickey’s.

It _would_ be forever this time though, Ian swore it.

“Fuck that’s sweet,” V sighed, her voice going high-pitched in adoration. “I almost cried when Kev got mine.”

“Oh shit!” Ian exclaimed, letting his shirt fall back down. “I almost forgot Kev had yours in the same spot!” Ian squinted while he looked at her, and wasn’t altogether sure if he was swaying or not from the two beers he had drank way faster than he should have.

The sun was just starting to set, but Ian was already well on his way to a good time. Lip had known full well he needed to get Ian drunk sooner rather than later, so they all had a half-chance in Hell at a good night’s sleep before the wedding; so as soon as they had gotten back from the tattoo shop, Lip had shoved an Old Style right into Ian’s freckled hands.

“I heard my name!” Kev yelled suddenly, appearing out of nowhere, and Ian smiled up at his face, patting his palm against his cheek.

“Hey Kev,” he whispered, like his name was a secret, and tried not to laugh.

“You stoned?”

“And drunk,” Ian admitted, feeling like he was on cloud nine, the pain that still ached every now and then inside of him nearly completely forgotten.

“Hey’d you get your staples out by the way?”

Ian grabbed the hem of his shirt again, pulling it up so Kev could see the massive scar running over his abs where they had cut him open to retrieve the bullet – a pink, harsh line that cut across his pale skin like lightning.

“Yup.”

“Fuck that’s a nice scar.”

“Mickey loves it,” Ian admitted, feeling his cheeks go red.

“You’re fuckin’ hopeless,” V huffed in answering, leaning into Kev’s body like he gave her all the support she needed, and Ian wanted to call her a hypocrite, but in all the nicest ways.

“So you have any advice for me?” Ian asked, turning his head as Franny screamed from the kitchen, high-pitched and happy as Liam chased her with a plastic sword.

“Communication man.” Kev pulled a joint from his pocket, sliding it between his lips and lighting it like it was second nature. “Communication is _key_.”

V rolled her eyes, which made Ian laugh.

“Kev you can’t communicate shit half the time!”

“What!?” He sounded affronted. “I tell you everything!”

“You try!” V exclaimed, taking a pull on her bottle of vodka. “You ain’t good at it though, baby,”

“You guys are fucked,” Ian snorted then, going forward with a grin and wrapping his arms around them. “But I love you.”

“Jesus Ian, don’t drink anymore,” Kev chuckled, scanning the room for Lip, finally finding him with Tami by the front window in the chair. “Yo, Lip!”

Lip turned at the sound of his name, glancing over at them with a nod.

“What!?”

“Don’t let the groom drink anymore, ya?”

Lip fucking laughed, eyeing Ian from across the room, and Ian knew he was definitely, probably, swaying a bit.

“Yea uhh, sure thing!”

“You guys suuuuuck,” Ian groaned, but turned with a happy smile, dancing a little to the music that bumped out around them before flopping himself down onto the couch beside Debs.

“How you doin’ champ?” she asked, turning away from Carl, who was so high his bloodshot eyes were basically closed entirely.

“Yea, I’m good!” It wasn’t a lie; Ian felt fucking great, not just because of the weed and the beer, but because he was with family.

“You stayin’ here tonight?” Carl inquired then, eyeing his brother the best he could. “’Cause if Mickey’s comin’ over you ain’t sleepin in my fuckin’ room.”

Ian snorted, and imagined fucking Mickey in that tiny bed. _Shit_ , he thought, that was definitely going to have to happen at some point.

“Nah he’s stayin’ with his brothers, I’m stayin’ here though.”

“Good old fashion wedding night then…” Debs sighed, causing Ian to knit his brows.

“Huh?”

“You know, no seeing the bride before the big day!?”

“Haha, you’re the bride for sure,” Carl huffed, a stupid smile spreading across his face as the song changed on the old boombox.

“Shut up, we’re both grooms you fuckin’ dick.” Ian reached across Debbie and punched Carl in the gut, making him curl forward.

“Ow!”

“What you get…”

“Jesus.” Debbie rolled her eyes, shaking her head in annoyance as she took an errant sip of beer.

Liam ran past the couch then, Franny hot on his heels as he went up to Lip and held Lip’s phone out to him, and Ian smiled at the way Lip ruffled their baby brother’s hair with his hand in thanks.

“Yo Debs!” Lip called suddenly, causing Debbie to glance towards him.

“Is it time?” she asked, her face lighting up slightly, and Lip simply nodded, causing a curious feeling to blossom in Ian’s chest.

“Wait, time for what?” Ian sat up then, glancing between his siblings, who just looked at him with sly little fucking smiles. “I swear to God,” Ian spat. “If you got me a fuckin’ stripper, I will walk out and never come back!”

The only answer he received was a chorus of laughter, but Lip got up from his spot in the chair and strolled over to where Ian was sitting, grabbing his shoulders and squeezing them briefly with a look of excitement before heading into the kitchen.

“Way better than that, man!” Lip yelled back, and Ian didn’t fucking trust him.

“Fuck off, what is happening?”

Lip grabbed something from off the kitchen counter and came back in, holding it out to Debbie; Ian eyed it – it was a random black piece of fabric.

“Here Debs, put this on him and I’ll get his gift.”

“Kay!” Debbie shot up, grabbing the fabric. “Close your eyes,” she said, and Lip went out the front door.

“No!”

“Oh come on!” Carl begged, standing up and shuffling over to stand by Liam, who was looking expectantly out the front window.

Ian glanced around, and noticed absently that Kev and V had conveniently disappeared.

“Fuck,” Ian huffed, finally giving in. “I swear to God you guys…” Despite the nerves in his chest, Ian crossed his arms against his good mood and leaned back in the couch, closing his eyes.

“Just shut up,” Debbie spat, and wrapped the fabric around his head, blindfolding him.

Fuck he hated surprises, and Ian was annoyed as he listened to the shuffling around him. He heard the door reopen as Lip apparently came back in, and the mumbling of hushed whispers he couldn’t quite make out.

It _had_ to be a fuckin’ stripper, in which case, Ian was calling Mickey; not that he wouldn’t be happy with some hot guy grinding against him for a little while, but Ian had a certain preference for a particular dark-haired South Sider grinding against him these days, and he also had a preference for doing it without prying eyes.

Everyone got quiet suddenly as someone turned down the music, and Ian stared at the back of the blindfold, nothing but dim light leaking in on the edges as his heart hammered ridiculously in his chest.

“Okay, take it off,” Lip said finally, and Ian took a deep breath before grabbing the piece of fabric on his head and flinging it onto the other end of the couch.

All the air in Ian’s lungs left him in an instant, and so, too, did his buzz.

Brown eyes stared back at him from where she sat on the coffee table in front of him, brown hair curling down around her face.

“Hey, Sweetface,” she said, and Ian felt his eyes burn from nothing more than the sight of her.

“Fiona?”

“Sorry I’m not a stripper.”

The breath hitched in Ian’s throat as a laugh tried to escape, but it was strangled as he fell forward without a thought, wrapping his arms around her shoulders – feeling the weight of her against his body – and Ian thought that besides Mickey’s own arms around him, this was the closest he would ever get to feeling completely safe and loved. 

“What are you doing here?” he asked, pulling himself back as he gazed at her; there had been so many times that he had needed her in the past year, but fuck, he was so happy she had gotten out.

“Mickey called me,” she admitted then, and Ian bit into his lip without meaning to.

“What?”

“He paid for my flights.”

_Of course he did._

“He did?”

Fiona smiled, her eyes scanning Ian’s face – scanning over the freckles and the months of separation – causing her look to grow soft.

“Yea,” she admitted, reaching a pale hand out and trailing it down his cheek, and Ian had completely forgotten about the others that were still standing around them, watching. “He called me when you got shot…”

“He called her before he even called me!” Lip interrupted then, but smiled despite the accusation.

Fiona glanced back at their brother and snorted before returning her gaze to Ian.

“He sounds like my kinda guy!” she added then, and Ian thought that was everything. “But I’m sorry I couldn’t have come sooner. Mickey wanted me to be here for the big day instead, he thought that was more important; if I recall, he said something like, _I can fuckin’ take care of him right now, he’s fine, but I think he would want you here for the wedding..._ ”

Grinning at her words, Ian just nodded, and although he shouldn’t have been surprised, he was.

_Mickey._

_Mickey who surprised everyone._

No other words could really come to him then; words weren’t something Ian needed when he looked around at the faces that eyed him as if he were worth something, and Ian rejoiced in the fact that he was finally starting to believe he was.

“So I guess we fuckin’ party, then?” Liam said suddenly, and Ian smiled, a sob escaping his chest as they laughed together, and the only thing that would have made this moment perfect, was if Mickey was there beside him.

“Yea, kid, I guess we do.”

~

It was dark, and Mickey knew he needed to get back to Iggy’s soon; he always needed his eight goddamn hours – especially because he was kinda tipsy – but despite it, he was actually too enraptured with all his siblings and Fergal Maguire to care. They all stood around the island in Colin’s massive kitchen, eating a giant birthday cake with forks as people partied and mingled around them in a haze of smoke and music.

“Oh fuck you!” Iggy snorted, shoving a massive piece of cake into his drunken mouth and talking around it, crumbs falling out onto his expensive suit. “I didn’t do it on purpose!”

“You SO did!” Colin barked, eyeing his phone, because all he did now was work. “Dad loved that fuckin’ car, and you crashed it on I-94 to spite him for not letting you go to fuckin’ Miami with that chick for Spring Break!”

They all laughed at that, especially when Iggy just nodded like it had been a completely logical thing to do.

“Yea ok fuck, you’re right.”

“I know I am!”

“God she was hot though, Colin.”

Mickey smiled around the mouth of his beer, shaking his head as he wondered how he’d gotten so lucky.

“We are talking about the same person right?” Mandy snorted then, remembering Michelle Vets-Parsons, Iggy’s high-school girlfriend. “’Cause she was a pig, Iggy.”

“Fuck, I know!” Iggy exclaimed, his head falling back as if that were the hottest thing he could imagine. “She was so fucked up. I loved her.”

“Jesus Christ,” Mickey chuckled, eyeing Fergal beside him. “You sure you wanna be in business with these assholes?”

Fergal just laughed, drunk enough for any Irishman to be proud as he jammed his fork into the cake.

“Absolutely,” he lilted, filling his gob. “I’m quite sure I made the right choice.”

Mickey just smiled more and wondered if something was wrong with him.

“Oh my God wait wait wait!” Mandy yelled suddenly, running over to her iPhone in the corner and turning the music off abruptly as everyone went quiet and eyed her. “It’s officially midnight!”

“Oh fuck,” Mickey hissed, pinching the bridge of his nose in annoyance, but the realization that he was going to marry Ian today overshadowed everything then, and his chest warmed as it tightened.

A round of applause and a cheer went up as everyone held their glasses in the air, and each of Mickey’s stupid fucking siblings yelled _Happy Birthday!_ at the same time, making him cringe.

“You’re up, Mands,” Colin said then, shifting himself back to lean against the counter, and Mickey lifted his eyes, gazing at their sister as his brows furrowed in confusion.

Mandy was looking back at him – a drunken smile on her face that didn’t hide the affection he knew she felt – and without warning, she opened her mouth then, and Mickey had to swallow back his emotions as she began singing Happy Birthday, every note echoing perfectly in the open space around them.

Every word was like happiness – was like love – and besides having Ian wrapped around him, Mickey thought this was the closest he would ever get to feeling safe and feeling loved.

Another round of applause burst throughout the penthouse when she finished, and despite it maybe being a corny thing to do in front of everyone, Mickey went forward and hugged her then, holding her a little bit longer than usual before letting go.

“Thanks,” he whispered, and it was all he could manage.

“You’re welcome, shit head.” Mandy turned then, putting the music back on before drifting back into the kitchen.

A vibration caught Mickey’s attention then, and he remembered absently that his Ian phone was shoved inside the front pocket of his dark-wash jeans. If they had lived different lives – if they had been different people – Mickey may have been happy to see Ian’s name appear on his phone screen; but after everything, there was still a hint of panic that came when his phone rang and Ian wasn’t with him.

“Hey you,” he answered, plugging his other ear to block out the noise around him as he strolled down the hallway and into the bathroom. 

“Heeyyy,” Ian sighed, clearly the worse for wear, and Mickey laughed, shutting the door behind him. “Happy birthday hot stuff!”

“Thanks.”

“Did Mandy sing like she told me she would!?

“Yea. It was…nice.”

“Awee,” Ian whined, like a child. “Did you cry!?”

“Shut up, and hey, you better not be fuckin’ hungover tomorrow!” Mickey strolled through the massive bathroom, sitting himself down on the edge of the jacuzzi tub.

“Shhh, I won’t be.”

“Mhmm.” Fuck, Mickey wished Ian was standing in front of him.

“You called my sister,” Ian said then, out of nowhere, and his voice went soft. “Fiona.”

It had been torture keeping it a secret for so long, but right now, Mickey was fucking glad he did; the sound of a happy, completely content, drunk Ian whispering in his ear was Mickey’s definition of bliss.

“Yea, I did baby.” Mickey leaned back, holding onto the sides of the tub as he slid himself carefully down into it, sitting inside like he was simply having a bath without the water.

“I fuckin’ love you, you know that?” Ian admitted, and Mickey could hear the smallest hint of emotion behind his words.

“Of course I do.”

“Good.”

It was quiet for a moment, so Mickey closed his eyes to it, just listening to Ian breathe as he tried to sync his own breaths up with his fiancé’s on the other end, like maybe if he could just do that, they’d somehow fuse together into one.

“Are you having fun with your family?” Mickey asked eventually, rubbing a finger along his jaw, feeling the five o’clock shadow.

“Yea. Did your brothers get you strippers?” Ian spat then, and Mickey snorted.

“Are you always gunna be jealous?” he asked, purposefully not answering the question to annoy him.

“Depends. Did you get grinded on by a stripper?”

Fuck, Mickey thought his brain was going to short-circuit from being so content; it couldn’t be healthy for his persona.

“No, Ian. They just invited a bunch of people, got cake and drinks and music and stuff.”

“Fuck,” Ian scoffed. “You must hate that.”

Mickey loved that Ian knew him.

“Yea, but it’s growing on me a bit.”

“Well, it’s gunna be worse tomorrow so, better get used to it.”

Pinching the bridge of his nose at the thought, Mickey imagined the entire church packed to the brim – South Side trash mingling with Chicago’s elite – and his stomach turned over.

“Fuck, don’t remind me.”

“But,” Ian whispered then, as if he were about to tell Mickey a really important secret. “You get to marry me, so it’s worth it.”

Mickey chewed on his lip as he smiled there in the bright lights of the bathroom, the city lit up like stars beyond the windows around him.

“Yea Gallagher, it’s worth it.” Mickey meant every word.

“Okay well, I guess I’ll let you get back to cake and music and drinking.”

“Speaking of,” Mickey huffed, hoisting himself out of the tub. “You need to _not_ drink anymore, okay? I told Lip to make sure you took it easy with your meds.”

“I only had two beers.”

Mickey snorted.

“Fuck you’re so precious.”

“Shut up and go to bed soon,” Ian spat, but it wasn’t at all as grumpy as he meant it to be. “I’m expecting an entire night of fucking tomorrow.”

All the blood in Mickey’s body rushed into his dick at that, and he had to shift himself on the cold stone at the edge of the tub to rein himself in.

“Yea well, you too, champ. I’m not going to ride you for the rest of my life y’know.”

“I’ve been wounded!” Ian scoffed, his voice so high and innocent that Mickey fell even further in love.

“I know.”

“Good. Okay, so I guess I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

“Hey Mick?”

“Mmm?”

“I’m glad it’s you.”

Mickey closed his eyes then and listened to the sound of the music from beyond the door, remembering absently the first time he had seen Ian dance, and how he had been convinced that his own heart had suddenly started beating to Ian’s rhythm and not its own.

Mickey kind of wished in the moment that he hadn’t taken his heart for granted before Ian had walked into his life, because now, it never would belong to him again.

“It always has been.”

~

The new, black Tom Ford tuxedo was warm, but Ian knew it wasn’t the heat that was making him sweat – it was nerves.

St. John Cantius Church was the last place Ian ever expected to get married one day; the massive, domed ceilings hanging over him – ornately decorated in golden tones on cream and blue hues – screamed of extravagance and taste that Ian was still not familiar with, even after a life in the business.

There were four wide rows of pews, every single one packed to the brim amongst stone pillars shining in the twinkling lights Mandy had had them adorned with, and the smell of lilies and orchids permeated the air, making Ian close his eyes and breathe, imagining he was somewhere in springtime.

“You alright?” Lip asked from beside him, placing a single hand on his back and squeezing in reassurance.

Ian turned a little, glancing at him from over his shoulder.

“This is a lot of fuckin’ people,” he hissed, not at all worried about the priest who was within earshot.

Lip shifted his gaze to the crowd, raising his eyebrows as he scanned over the guests dressed like they were back at the black-tie gala.

“Yea this is umm, wow. You’re like a celebrity.”

Ian snorted.

“Not really.”

“Why such a big place?”

Ian shot his brother a look, as if he were an idiot.

“They’re the Milkoviches, Lip.”

“Ahh,” his brother nodded, a smile pulling up his lips as he glanced down at Freddie in Tami’s arms, dressed in a tiny three-piece suit. “Fair enough.”

Ian followed Lip’s gaze to the first row of pews; Fiona stared up at him as if she had never been prouder, a wide grin spreading across her face as their eyes met, and Ian tried his best to smile back despite the butterflies flying wild in his stomach.

There was an empty space beside her – reserved for Debbie and Franny – but on the other side, Carl sat fidgeting, giving Ian the thumbs up like an idiot before glancing around at the people congregating in the massive space, and Ian didn’t have to read minds to know Carl was looking to see just how many thugs he recognized in the room, and probably how to go about asking to hold their guns, which were – Ian was positive – hidden under suit jackets and dresses.

Liam just swung his legs beside Kev and V, smiling at his red-haired brother as if he looked up to him maybe, which made Ian sniff, look away, and straighten his bowtie.

There were heavyweights standing around the perimeter of the room, mingling with random people as if they were nothing more than normal, invited guests; but Ian recognized at least a few of them from North Side, and knew that at least for today, they’d be safe.

Music started suddenly then, the small string quartet in the corner – the same one that had played at the gala – breaking into sweet melody, causing Ian’s heart to hammer in his chest as his bowtie somehow got tighter, and the entirety of the crowd quieted, shifting into their seats then as the lights dimmed.

“Here we go,” Lip whispered, stepping closer to Ian as they both straightened themselves subconsciously, and Ian was glad he was there beside him.

The large wooden doors at the back opened then and Mandy appeared, Debbie by her side in a matching champagne dress. Franny stood in front of them, an ornate basket of rose petals clutched tightly in her tiny hands. At Debbie’s prodding, she reached in then and began picking them out one by one, scattering them haphazardly onto the floor as she walked forward.

Ian felt his nerves ebb slightly at the sight of his niece, her red hair pulled back – showing her perfectly round face – and Ian thought she looked like her mother.

Debbie met his eyes then and she smiled, causing a grin Ian had never quite felt before to spread across his own face, and he shifted his gaze to Mandy out of instinct, who looked just as goddamn happy to be getting him as a brother as he was to be getting all of them in return.

When they reached the end of the aisle, Debbie turned, taking Franny by the hand and sitting into the empty space beside Fiona as Mandy went to the other side of the aisle – Mickey’s side – and sat beside Iggy.

Lifting his eyes then, Ian refocused on the back doors, the heart within him working its way up into his throat as he waited, trying to school his breath and calm himself so he wouldn’t seem so flustered; but he _was_ flustered, and when those wooden doors opened suddenly then, he remembered why.

Mickey stood there staring back at him; his white tuxedo jacket had black trim that matched his perfectly combed black hair, and it made him stand out like he was the only other person there. In that moment, Ian was positive that he _was_ , because everyone else disappeared then entirely as his heart moved back down his throat to its rightful place within his ribs, beating hard against his bones at nothing more than the sight of him.

Mickey was still the entire length of the church away, but Ian was sure he could see the specks in his blue eyes and the teeth that showed between slightly parted lips.

“Mickey,” Ian whispered without meaning to – so quiet that nobody but Lip heard it – and the word was just as much a promise as it was a declaration.

Behind Mickey, Colin stood slightly off to the side – his own black tuxedo the mirror image of Lip’s – and Ian watched as he put a hand on Mickey’s shoulder, apparently pulling Mickey out of some sort of reverie as he gazed unblinkingly back at Ian, and the electricity between them filled the room to the point that Ian was positive everyone’s hair was standing on end.

They came forward then as the high, staccato notes of violins and cello shifted to an entirely different melody, filling the church with the sounds of music Ian thrived on; but now it wasn’t just the music that was taking him to another place entirely, it was the blue eyes he couldn’t stop looking at.

The closer they came, the more Ian breathed, and he knew he probably looked so fucking _fond_ that people were going to be sick from sweetness, but he honestly didn’t care in the least.

“Hey,” Mickey whispered when he reached the altar, a small smile teasing his lips as he climbed up the stairs that lay between them so he could finally stand in front of Ian.

“Hey.” It took everything Ian had within him not to kiss him right then and there, but the music faded out suddenly – keeping him focused – and for once, the silence didn’t bother him in the least.

Mickey reached his hand down, intertwining his fingers with Ian’s as they faced the priest, and Ian had never been more ready in his life.

~

Mickey barely listened to a single thing the priest was yammering on about; his eyes were constantly drifting to the side, just so he could look at Ian in that black tuxedo beside him, his orange hair combed perfectly back above porcelain skin, freckles scattered all over him in the warm light like a million tiny promises.

“Who has the rings?” the priest said suddenly – pulling Mickey from his adoration – and he turned back to Colin in answering, watching as his brother pulled a small black band from his inner pocket and laid it gently in Mickey’s hand.

This is the part that had kept Mickey up all night worrying; he hated crowds – especially hated being at the centre of them – but he hated speaking in public even more.

For just a second – as Mickey reached into his jacket to grab his speech – he wondered if deciding to write their own vows had been a huge fucking mistake; but as he gazed back at Ian then – who smiled down at him reassuringly while Mickey fumbled nervously in his pocket before finally finding the paper – Mickey remembered why he had agreed to any of this in the first place.

Mickey glanced quickly at the priest, looking for some sort of guidance, and the priest just nodded in return, encouraging him to start.

_Fuck._

Mickey cleared his throat, and the sound echoed through the massive space.

_Fuck._

“Ian,” Mickey started, and just like that – as that name fell out of his mouth – he could have said it all by heart. “I often thought that with the life I had lived – with some of the things I had done – that karma would have had a different plan for my life. I never thought that I would be able to stand out in the open one day and say that I was blessed, because I was convinced I didn’t deserve to be. Then – one night not all that long ago – you climbed into my car and into my heart, and I realized that maybe – despite everything – I had been forgiven for all the things I had done, and all the things I could ever do. You made me feel like I was worth more than I thought I was, and the only way I can thank you for that is by trying to make you feel the same way, every single day that you’re by my side. I know you may be the only one who will understand what it means when I say this, but I promise you, Ian – I promise you everything. I promise to protect you, to fight for you, to be there for you, to listen to you, to make sure you know just how perfect you are, and above all, to love you, for as long as you’ll let me.”

Mickey’s voice wavered as he finished, and he glanced up at Ian, seeing the way his eyes shimmered as the reflection of a thousand little lights danced within them, and Mickey choked back whatever was threatening to burst free so he could slide that ring onto Ian’s finger, where he knew it would stay.

~

How the fuck he hadn’t managed to full on sob was a goddamn miracle. Ian had chewed ruthlessly on the inside of his lip the entire time Mickey spoke, and he knew already that when they kissed, Mickey was going to taste blood, which Ian also knew would only make the whole thing more perfect.

Ian watched Mickey slide that black band onto his finger – right next to his gold one – and a shaky breath escaped his lips then as he smiled down at him, giving Mickey all that he had with a single look before he turned to Lip and held out his hand.

Reaching inside his pocket, Lip pulled out the matching band and set it gently in Ian’s palm. Ian eyed it briefly in the glow before grabbing his own written vows from his jacket, looking down at Mickey as a small laugh escaped his chest at the nerves that suddenly reappeared with a vengeance.

How the fuck was he supposed to follow that?

“Mickey,” Ian started, and the word was so quiet, he worried Mickey hadn’t even heard it; but Mickey’s face shifted then into one of adoration and softness, and Ian knew that he had. “I know you’ll know what I mean when I say that growing up on the South Side was never easy; when you’re raised on the wrong side of the tracks, everything is a struggle; but luckily, I was given _one_ thing that I was proud of, and they’re all sitting and standing here today – in the front pew, and behind me. My family showed me what love was, and they kept showing me every single day, even when the time came that I could no longer see it anymore, and I strayed down a path I had no control over. For so long, I hated myself for what my mind and my body had made me become; that was until you walked into my life and proved to me that every wrong turn I took was actually the right one – that every funk I fell into was actually okay – because it led me to you. My family taught me what love was, but I don’t think I ever fully understood what it meant until I felt yours. Your love pulled me in to shore from a darkening sea I was sure would never let me go; you were a light on my horizon, and every single day you only continue to burn brighter – my own little lighthouse. Your love saved me, Mickey, in more ways than one, and all I can do is tell you that I will try every day to burn for you just as brightly, forever guiding you home.”

There were tears in Mickey’s eyes, Ian could see them glistening in the twinkling lights around them as he slid the ring onto Mickey’s finger, and Ian had to swallow hard to keep from grasping onto him before it was time.

“Now that Ian and Mikhailo have exchanged both rings _and_ vows…” the priest started then, and Ian actually started to vibrate. “…forever cementing their love and commitment to each other, I now pronounce them husband, and husband…”

Ian didn’t even wait for the rest of it, and neither did Mickey; they both went forward at once, their bodies crashing into each other like waves on distant shores as a cheer erupted from the crowd.

Ian slid his hands up to Mickey’s neck – holding him steady, holding him firm – and he could taste the promise of a lifetime on Mickey’s tongue, and maybe, just the smallest hint of blood.

~

“Why the fuck are we here, Gallagher?” Mickey spat, turning his car into the abandoned lot where the empty parking garage was – where his Audi had sat hidden after running form the gala. “We have to be back at the house for the reception in twenty minutes.”

The photographs had taken forever, but Mickey hadn’t really minded; smiling at Ian – kissing Ian, gazing at Ian – wasn’t really a fucking hardship.

“It’s _Milkovich_ now, actually,” Ian corrected then, a sly grin on his face that made Mickey’s face warm. “And I have a surprise for you”

“ _Here!?_ ” Mickey looked around as he pulled into the crumbling garage, absolutely certain that one day soon, the whole thing was going to fall down.

“Yea, just park somewhere.”

“Anywhere?”

“Yea.”

Mickey shrugged, curving the Audi around level by level until they were at the very top, South Side spreading out around them on all sides with the blue sky above them.

“Good enough?” he asked, glancing at his husband as he pulled into a random parking space.

“No actually, back in.”

“What?”

Ian rolled his eyes.

“Back in.”

Mickey huffed in annoyance but did as he was told, pulling the Audi out, turning her around, and then backing into the space.

“Better?” he snorted, throwing the car into park before turning it off.

“Yup, now follow me.” Ian got out of the car then, and Mickey watched the way those perfectly tailored pants hugged his ass before following.

Ian strolled to the front of the car and stood there, that grin on his face only growing, making Mickey suspicious as fuck.

“So where’s my gift?” Mickey inquired, glancing around the abandoned roof and seriously doubting there was anything hidden there.

Ian took a step back, his eyes narrowing in a way that made Mickey’s stomach twist.

“Get on the hood of the car,” Ian said then, and Mickey’s eyebrows nearly hit the fucking stratosphere as all the blood within him rushed directly to his cock.

“Pardon?”

“You heard me. Get on the fuckin’ car, Mr. Milkovich.”

Mickey had had dreams about this – way more than once – but he knew he had never told Ian about it; shit, maybe Ian would just always know his secrets.

When Mickey didn’t move then from blood loss in his limbs, Ian stepped forward, grabbing the lapel of his jacket and shoving him backwards onto the hood so he sat harshly down on the matte black paint.

“We only have twenty minutes so, I hope you’re already hard.”

“Jesus Christ, Ian,” Mickey panted, his breath already coming fast as his hands automatically went for Ian’s belt, but he stopped suddenly when his mind decided to work properly for half a second. “Wait wait!” he huffed, pressing his palm gently against Ian’s stomach – against his scar. “Are you sure?”

“Oh fuck yes.” Ian’s hand shot out so quickly to Mickey’s own belt then that Mickey just leaned back against the hood, watching the way Ian’s freckled fingers expertly undid the buckle before pulling his pants and briefs off over his shoes in a single go, tossing them carelessly onto the freshly cleaned hood behind Mickey as Mickey’s dick sprang free, already leaking like a goddamn sieve. “Fuck, Mickey. I’m gunna cum so hard.”

Sliding his own belt out at lightning speed, Ian tossed it onto the ground and shoved his pants down to his knees, a groan escaping Mickey’s chest as he eyed Ian’s massive cock in the evening light, causing his stomach to tighten and roil with need.

“Good. I wanna feel it in me...”

“Wanna show you something first though,” Ian whispered then, his fingers going suddenly to the buttons of his jacket and undoing them instead of to Mickey’s ass as fingering it.

“I’ve seen your scar, Ian, we don’t have time for you to show me again…”

“Shut up,” Ian hissed, smacking Mickey’s bare ass and sending a jolt into his balls as Ian undid the buttons of his shirt one by one, the soft, porcelain skin of his stomach coming into view, then the auburn hair of his chest as he finally reached the top one at his neck.

Mickey’s heart thrummed in his chest then as Ian’s shirt fell open and his gaze landed on the two fresh _M’_ s inked over his heart.

“Ian…” Mickey sat up a little so he could reach out and trail his fingertips over his initials, feeling the slight scabbing raised against Ian’s skin. “When did you…?”

“Yesterday,” he confessed, placing his hand over Mickey’s on his chest and holding it there so Mickey could feel Ian’s heart beating beneath it. “I needed you to be a part of me again.”

“Come here,” Mickey groaned, pulling Ian into him then as he kissed him hard, their lips audibly mashing together, and Ian kept their hands intertwined for another minute, just letting Mickey feel himself there on Ian’s skin – just letting Mickey know that everything he had said today, he’d meant, and then some.

Mickey had never doubted it.

“Okay okay!” Ian smiled against Mickey’s lips before pulling away and forcefully pushing him back down onto the hood of his car. “We don’t have time for this!”

“That’s what I’ve been saying!” Mickey teased, eyeing Ian’s cock once more as it rubbed against his inner thigh, and an all-consuming desperation clawed its way into his stomach and his ribcage then, making his own dick twitch; he hadn’t been properly fucked by Ian in two months, and Mickey knew he would probably blow before Ian even reached thrust ten.

Reaching into his inner pocket then, Ian pulled out a tiny packet of lube, tearing it open with his teeth as his eyes burned into Mickey’s from above.

“Will you ever _not_ look like a porn star when I fuck you?” Ian queried, squeezing a massive dollop onto his fingers before reaching directly down and pressing them onto Mickey’s asshole, the cold wetness only lasting a second before adjusting to his body temperature.

“Shit.” Mickey’s head fell back as his eyes closed, and the feeling of the warm metal under his back only made his dick leak as it grew harder.

Ian pushed against him, his fingers trailing around and around Mickey’s opening before sliding up his perineum, over his balls, and all the way up the length of his cock, twirling around his tip before sliding all the way back down, making Mickey’s lips part and a whimper escape his chest as his balls tingled

“So tight,” Ian hissed, and Mickey arched up off the hood of the car then as Ian pressed a finger in, slipping it in and out relentlessly, over and over again, stretching Mickey open bit by bit.

“So fuckin’ wet.” Mickey could hear the moisture inside of him, and he reveled in it as Ian slid in another, turning his hand upwards then so he could beckon Mickey’s prostate and curl his fingers against it, sending a wave of pleasure throughout Mickey’s entire body.

“Touch yourself,” Ian demanded suddenly, and Mickey’s hand moved of its own volition, wrapping itself around his cock and squeezing, forcing a string of precum to drip out onto his fist as he finally reopened his eyes to meet Ian’s.

Ian was bent over slightly, left hand on the hood of the car beside Mickey’s thigh as he stared down at his face with parted lips and a half-lidded gaze. Ian’s right arm was shifting, shifting, as he edged Mickey closer, and Mickey wanted to start stroking himself immediately at the sight.

“Fucking get it in me Ian, Jesus,” Mickey begged, and Ian’s fingers were out of him so fast that Mickey barely even noticed the transition as Ian grabbed hold of his own cock then, spreading the remaining lube down over himself before grasping onto Mickey’s ankles and pushing his legs all the way up to his fucking shoulders. “Christ!” Mickey felt himself open and expand at the action as Ian let go of one of his ankles then and began pressing his way in.

“Shiiiit,” Ian groaned, his mouth falling open as the head of his dick forced Mickey apart inch by inch, until all of him had sunk in up to his balls.

Mickey could already feel his orgasm on the outer edges of his fucking soul.

“Fuck I missed you.” Mickey grinned then, the feeling of that familiar expansion making him euphoric as he raised his head a little to talk directly to Ian’s cock, and Ian smiled before sliding himself back out suddenly and slamming into Mickey so fucking hard he shifted up towards the windshield. “Oh fuck, Ian!”

“Hold onto something,” Ian hissed then, and Mickey let go of his leaking dick at once, placing both his hands palm-down on the hood and holding himself there as Ian began fucking into him like a jackhammer – like they would both die if his rhythm decreased in the slightest.

Mickey was sliding up and down the hood with every impact, the sound of slapping skin echoing off the half-wall around them, and Mickey wondered if Ian was going to send the entire fucking parking garage crashing down around them, and if he’d even care.

There was a warmth blossoming inside of Mickey’s pelvis as Ian’s dick slammed against his prostate over and over again, so he grabbed back onto his cock then – his cock that was so fucking wet he could hear his hand sliding over it at a fevered pace as he watched Ian’s face. Ian’s teeth were showing as he bit hard into his bottom lip and bared down, chin pressing into his chest as he went faster, faster, and Mickey knew he probably could have cum from just the sight of him.

“I’m gunna fucking cum Mick, shit,” Ian panted suddenly, letting go of Mickey’s ankles and sliding his hands down to his ass so he could spread him open and watch his own dick hammer into Mickey over and over again. “Oh Jesus Christ.”

“Fuckin’ fill me, Ian,’ Mickey whined, his fist gripping himself tighter as it slid north to his tip, jerking it hard to the exact rhythm of Ian’s dick inside him. “I wanna cum with you.”

“Shit, ok baby.” Ian’s face contorted then – a look of heartbreak and euphoria that Mickey knew they were both all-too-familiar with crossing his features – and Mickey’s orgasm was knocking on his fucking door from just the sight of it.

Ian bent forward suddenly, gripping his arms around Mickey’s thighs and pulling him down onto his cock one final time as he thrust forward, going so goddamn deep that Mickey swore he felt Ian against his fucking lungs.

Mickey didn’t even make a sound when he came then, his mouth just fell open in silent pleasure as he watched Ian grunt and fall apart like he had just run a three day marathon, his dick forcing cum out of Mickey with so much force that it flew upwards at an alarming rate, landing on the hood of the car by Mickey’s face.

“Fuuuuuck,” Mickey cried, his body still spasming around Ian’s cock as it filled him to the point that it leaked out and down his cheeks onto the car, and Ian just fell forward at the sensation of Mickey tightening around him, resting his sweating head on Mickey’s belly where his jacket and shirt had ridden up as his lungs worked overtime.

Mickey let go of his cock instinctively, laying his hand on Ian’s head and brushing his fingers through his hair.

“Holy shit I fucking love you,” he panted then – Ian’s head rising and falling with every one of Mickey’s breaths – and he would never be tried of saying it, especially when Ian blew him apart into nothing but fucking atoms.

Clearly, Ian couldn’t just form a sentence yet; he simply turned his head so his mouth was against Mickey’s skin, warming it with every exhale as he just nodded into his tummy, causing Mickey to laugh up into the warm, empty sky.

~

Ian slid his arm around Mickey on the couch, eyeing him every now and then as their families mingled together around them, a growing pile of presents reaching half-way up the wall in the space in front of the fireplace.

“I’m glad you just wanted to do something small at home,” Ian admitted then, watching Fiona as she hoisted Freddie up into her arms by the front window, making a face that made Freddie giggle and Ian’s chest get warm.

“Yea well, the ceremony is always for everyone else, the reception is just for us.” Mickey glanced back at him, his black hair still a bit of a mess, which sent sparks into Ian’s thighs as he remembered the sight of Mickey splayed out like a King on his Audi below him.

“Hey,” Colin said suddenly, appearing from the kitchen with Fergal Maguire, causing Ian to rein in his thoughts.

“Hey, you gotta go?” Mickey asked, eyeing both men separately, and Ian could hear by the tone of his voice that the thought pained him a little.

“Yea, Fergal and I have some shit to go over before he flies back tonight.” Colin came forward then and sat on the edge of the coffee table in front of them.

“It was a nice fuckin’ wedding, by the way!” Fergal spat, shoving a hors d’oeuvre into his mouth before winking at Ian when their eyes met, and Ian thought maybe the Irishman was alright, even if he was a cocky fuck that pined for his husband.

“Thanks.” Ian smiled at him, genuinely. “I’m happy.” Pressing his nose into Mickey’s neck, Ian breathed him in, just to give Fergal Maguire a show.

“Yea okay, that’s enough,” Colin huffed, and he sounded so much like Mickey that it made Ian’s face split in two. “Here, your gift from me.” Colin pulled an envelope from his jacket then and handed it to Mickey, making Mickey’s brows furrow as a look of dismay crossed his face.

“Colin, you basically paid for the whole wedding man, we can’t…”

“You can,” Colin interrupted, raising a hand and cutting his brother off with that loving, authoritative voice he only used with his siblings.

Mickey just nodded without arguing any further, sliding his thumb under the lip of the envelope and tearing it open.

Leaning over, Ian glanced down at the folded papers in Mickey’s hands as he slid them out, briefly reading over the first few sentences.

“What the fuck?” Mickey’s voice conveyed quite a bit of shock, and Ian felt his heart begin to hammer in his chest as his mouth went dry.

“Colin, are you fuckin’ serious?” Ian stammered, ripping the papers from Mickey’s hands as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing: it was the confirmation for the yacht cruise off the coast of Greece in December.

“Hey, Terry won it fair and square,” Colin snorted then, and Ian didn’t think he would ever forget the bidding war Terry Milkovich had started to win this stupid fucking trip at the gala – the same night Mickey had brought Ian home.

“Holy shit,” Ian breathed, his hands trembling and making the papers shake. No other words would come to him; he had never been anywhere in his life – had never really _had_ anything – and now, he had _everything_ , including the entire world within arm’s reach.

“Yea well,” Colin sniffed, rubbing a finger across his nose. “It’s still a few months away but, consider it your honeymoon, ‘cause I can’t think of a better way to piss off Terry’s ghost than sending you two on his trip.” 

Mickey snorted at that, causing Ian to finally meet his gaze in the glow of warm lamplight; Mickey just smiled back at him, as if he were only happy for Ian, and not at all for himself.

“Care to take a trip with me?” he asked then, tattooed hand going to Ian’s knee and squeezing slightly, trying to bring Ian back down to earth.

Ian was well aware his mouth had just been hanging open for an obscene amount of time.

“Holy shit,” he repeated, and Mickey just laughed.

“And this is from me,” Fergal said suddenly, pulling Ian from his daze as the Irishman produced his own envelope from his jacket pocket.

What was with criminals and fucking envelopes?

Mickey looked up at Fergal as he took the paper from his hands, and Ian saw him swallow.

“You dick,” Mickey huffed, but smiled. “You didn’t have to.”

“Yea, well.” Fergal just shrugged, scratching absently at his jaw with a hand Ian was sure had way more little tattoos on it than the last time he had seen him. “It kinda goes with Colin’s. I paid for your flights, on my private jet.”

“You what?” Ian scoffed, but found he wasn’t actually all that surprised.

“I have certain interests to keep in mind,” Fergal said then, eyeing Mickey in a way that would never _not_ make Ian jealous, but for now – as he glanced at the rings on his finger – Ian thought he could live with it.

~

Mickey strolled back down the stairs, squeezing himself between Mandy, Debbie, and V as he went for the couch, where Ian was simply sitting quietly, nursing a beer as he leaned back, the bowtie at his neck undone and his top button open as he watched the people they loved most drift around them like leaves on a breeze.

“Hey, baby,” Ian smiled then, lifting his arm so Mickey could slide in under it beside him.

“Here,” Mickey said, pulling yet another envelope out of his own jacket then and handing it to Ian, enjoying the way his eyes rolled at the sight of it.

“You guys and your fuckin’ envelopes. What is it?”

Mickey rubbed a thumb along his temple nervously and itched for a cigarette.

“My gift to you.”

Ian sat up a little, setting his beer onto the coffee table as his brows furrowed.

“I thought we agreed no presents?”

“Well, I owed you this one, and after the car, well, I honestly think my present pales in comparison, Mr. Milkovich.”

Ian smiled at that, and leaned forward to press a kiss to Mickey’s forehead.

“Fair enough.” Ian tore the lip off the envelope, and Mickey could see that Ian had been expecting a lot of things, but definitely not the cheque for a million dollars.

Ian just held it between his hands, staring at his name inked black across the front, just like it was permanently inked into Mickey’s chest.

“Mickey, no, I…”

“Stop.” Mickey cut him off, and Ian turned towards him then, their eyes meeting once more in a look that made everything else disappear. “I told you, a Milkovich always keeps his promise.”

Ian just stared back at him, eyes glistening, though if it was from tears or from love, Mickey didn’t think he’d ever know.

“Thank you,” Ian whispered, falling forward so his lips could find Mickey’s for the thousandth time that day, and Mickey let him in despite everyone that stood around them, low voices and hushed music echoing throughout the house, creating a soundtrack to their life that sounded like home – that sounded like the South Side, family, and all the things they now had because of each other.

“You’re a Milkovich now too, y’know?” Mickey said then, pulling away so he could stare down at Ian’s lips, trace a thumb over them. “That means all those things you said today are set in stone.”

Smiling at that, Ian brought his own hand up to lay over top of Mickey’s once more, their rings pressing together in the silence that only existed between them.

“I know.”

Their faces were so close there on the couch that there was only an inch or two between their eyes – eyes that looked back at each other with all the promises they would ever make and keep as their families stood watch behind them, and Mickey knew in that moment – just as well as Ian did – that they would be together…

Forever. 

~

As Ian looked back at Mickey in that moment, he knew – just as well as Mickey did – that from now on, it would be the both of them….

Until the fucking end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! Merry Christmas: Epilogue dropping Christmas Day!
> 
> -The Lighthouse Keeper by Sam Smith is the song I imagine Ian and Mickey played at their wedding, even though it technically came out after. BUT, WITCHY STORY: that song literally dropped the day I started writing the final chapter, which - BY THE WAY - I had known the title of since chapter seven. The fact that that song came out the same day, with the exact same title I had ALREADY chosen, made me think - just like Mickey - that maybe there are things in this universe we can't explain. I swear, the song was written for my boys, and I urge you all to listen to it if you're all up in you feels.
> 
> -Thank you. Eternally. I love you.


	19. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing. Just bliss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If we're being honest with each other, this ridiculously long epilogue really has no significant plot or important details whatsoever. It is nothing but soft, xxx-smutty, romantic drivel. It is everything I wanted my boys to have after everything they'd been through. I won't blame you if you don't finish reading it! (Maybe)  
> Again, thank you. From the bottom of my heart.

“You just gunna ignore me the whole ride?” Mickey huffed, gazing out the back window of their town car as the night lights of Athens began cropping up around them in the darkness, creating a warm, golden glow that lit up ancient stone – ancient stone that honestly made Mickey feel like maybe time was a precious, fickle thing.

Glancing at his husband, Mickey raised his brows in frustration; Ian wasn’t even looking at him, just staring out his own window as his eyes tried hard to stay open after the twelve-hour flight that had nearly killed them both.

“Hey!” Mickey spat, completely ignoring the driver who glanced at them in the rearview as he smacked Ian’s arm, trying to get him to at least look in his direction.

“ _What!?_ ” Ian hissed, finally turning his gaze, the passing lights throwing deep shadows across his porcelain face in the night.

“Jesus Christ, Ian, I already said I was sorry!”

“Mhmm.” Ian looked back out the window, fingering the bracelet on his wrist that Mickey had gotten him for his birthday.

The tired tension in the car was going to suffocate him, Mickey was sure of it. Chewing on his lip as distraction, he felt a sudden wave of guilt crash through him then, making his stomach turn over at the idea of starting their honeymoon like this after four months of chaotic bliss.

“Look,” Mickey tried again, turning slightly in his seat so he could face Ian head on. “You know how I get when I’m tired, okay? And I know how _you_ get when you’re tired and anxious and…”

“ _Then why be an asshole!?_ ” Ian barked, his sleepy green eyes fiery as they found Mickey’s once more. “ _If you know how I get, why make me feel like shit about it!?_ ”

Shame was definitely an emotion Mickey Milkovich could feel, but not one he felt often; now, however – as he recalled Ian’s constant fidgeting and restlessness on the flight – he felt it, and wished more than anything he hadn’t gotten so fucking annoyed with Ian after asking ten times in a row if that amount of turbulence was normal as his long, freckled leg bounced and he chewed his short, stubby nail down to a bloody quick, causing Mickey to blow his fucking lid completely.

“Because…” Mickey trailed off, sniffing loudly in the quiet as he thumbed his temple, knowing this was going to come off the wrong way before he even said it. “Because I forget about your bipolar and shit sometimes, alright? I forget that stress and anxiety and lack of sleep can make things hard for…”

“ _How the fuck can you forget, Mickey!?_ ” Ian interrupted, voice slowly getting louder. “ _You force me to take those fuckin’ pills every morning!_ ”

“ _Force you!?_ ” Mickey spat back, a sudden poison in his voice at the accusation as he got his back up.

Ian rolled his eyes dramatically.

“You know what I mean!”

“You wanna know why I forget!?” Mickey hissed the question, setting his shoulders as his jaw clenched; there was no way they were still going to be pissed when they reached the docks, Mickey swore it; and there was no way he was going to let Ian keep looking at him so accusingly, like Mickey didn’t care about him.

“Oh please,” Ian huffed sarcastically, a condescending tone in his voice. “Tell me everything!”

“ _Because it’s not something I think about!_ ” Mickey practically screamed, and watched the way Ian’s eyes narrowed a bit, like he was both cautious of that statement and preparing himself for war. “I don’t fuckin’ walk on eggshells around you, Ian! I don’t let the fact that you’re bipolar influence the way I treat you! So yea, I forget about it sometimes because it’s a goddamn non-issue for me! It’s just something you have, not what you are for Christ’s sake!”

It may have been the shadows crossing over his features, but Mickey thought he saw Ian’s lip tremble a bit and his face soften; Mickey felt that twist in his stomach turn at once to warmth as a silence settled between them for a moment, the lights around them becoming more frequent and brighter as they pushed into the city.

“I just…” Mickey glanced away from Ian’s gaze, feeling vulnerable suddenly, which was something he had slowly been realizing over the past few months went hand-in-hand with marriage. “It’s not that I _forget_ , Ian, I mean, you know I’m a pain in the ass, always making sure you take your meds and shit, that you’re acting…” Mickey stopped, not wanting to use the wrong word.

“Normal?” Ian finished, and Mickey smiled a bit at the sudden softness in his voice, causing him to glance back at his husband.

“You are normal, Ian.” Mickey reached his hand out, taking Ian’s into his own and intertwining their fingers so he could finally just feel him like he had been wanting to since they’d landed. “But yea, I guess. In the beginning – after the hospital – I ‘d find myself worryin’ about you and your moods for no fuckin’ reason, and that’s when you’d snap at me, because you didn’t want to be treated any differently, and I get that, man. So I stopped thinkin’ about it so fuckin’ much and honestly, it’s so far from my mind now I don’t even take it into consideration, which I know you appreciate ninety-nine percent of the time, but we both have to remember that – sometimes, at least – it needs to be a consideration. So I’m sorry about the flight, and I’m sorry I lost my cool. I knew flying made you nervous and anxious – I knew being tired wasn’t going to help – but just because I’m exhausted, too, and have flown a million times before don’t mean I have the right to be a douchebag and make you feel stupid for what you were clearly goin’ through.”

A small smirk tugged up the corner of Ian’s lips at that as he rubbed his thumb along Mickey’s knuckles in answering, gently feeling the rings that sat there, and Mickey knew that was the end of it.

“You’re a soft bitch, Mickey Milkovich,” Ian sighed, his eyes teasing, which only made Mickey laugh.

“Yea well, only with you apparently.”

Ian increased his pressure on his husband’s fingers.

“I’m sorry, too,” he confessed then, leaning forward to press his lips to Mickey’s, just holding them there for a few seconds so he could do nothing more than taste the love they shared. “I know how I can get, Mick, but I also know that nobody makes me feel more _normal_ than you do...”

“So can we promise not to fuckin’ fight anymore until we’re back home?” Mickey whispered, pressing a smile against Ian’s mouth as he looked up into his eyes.

“Promise.

~

Ian kissed Mickey again because he fucking could, and felt his own annoyance and frustration slink back as his tiredness reclaimed him, Mickey’s confession making him feel a lot less angry and a bit more whole.

The fact that his first ever flight had been a twelve-hour one had made Ian nervous and on edge for weeks; and the fact that it was a red-eye and Ian had known he wouldn’t sleep a wink from that very anxiety didn’t help, either. None of that was Mickey’s fault though, and he knew it; Ian got anxious easily when he was tired and nervous, and Mickey got pissy when he was tired and frustrated; they both knew these things, really, yet they both still pushed buttons.

It was one of the things Ian loved most about being married to Mickey Milkovich.

Pulling away, Ian kept their hands intertwined as he fell back against the seat, returning his gaze to the ancient city beyond the window – a city Ian never once imagined he would see in person.

“Hey, come here,” Mickey said suddenly, voice excited, and Ian turned towards him.

“What?”

Mickey rolled his eyes, pointing a finger out his window.

“Come here and see this.”

Undoing his seatbelt, Ian shifted across the small backseat, sidling up to Mickey so he could lean across him and peer out the window, the sudden closeness of Mickey’s body making Ian acutely aware of the driver in the front seat and his husband’s cock beside his waist.

“Holy shit,” Ian huffed, his breath leaving him a little as he eyed the massive, white stone pillars flooded in light atop a hill of rock. “Is that…?”

“The Parthenon,” Mickey finished, the smile in his voice evident, but Ian could see from his peripherals that Mickey was simply staring at his own freckled face instead of the historic monument, like Ian was actually the thing that should be protected at all costs, and not some old pile of fucking stones.

Reaching inside his pocket and ignoring the blue-eyed temptation beside him, Ian pulled his phone out at once, basically sitting in Mickey’s lap as he snapped as many pictures of it as he could, ensuring he’d always remember that he’d been here once, in case the day ever came that he doubted it.

“Get enough?” Mickey snorted – after Ian’s finger had pressed the shutter button a hundred times – and Ian felt the warmth of happiness grow inside his chest as he turned finally and kissed Mickey’s mouth sweetly once more before shuffling himself down to lay in the backseat, head resting on Mickey’s thigh.

“Enough for a lifetime,” Ian yawned, suddenly wanting nothing more than to sleep there forever.

“How much further to the marina?” Mickey raised his voice a little so the driver would know he was speaking to him.

“About ten, fifteen minutes.”

The excitement in Ian’s nerves sparked back to life at those words, but at this point, Ian thought it was probably because sleep was so near at hand after almost twenty-four hours of wakefulness and not because they were about to be on a massive fucking yacht.

Mickey peered down at him then, a soft smile on his softer lips as he trailed his tattooed fingers through Ian’s hair, toying with the strands and making Ian’s skin ripple to life.

“Talk to me about somethin’,” Ian whispered, closing his eyes against the warmth of Mickey’s body beneath his cheek.

“About what?”

“Anything.” Ian just wanted to listen to him for a bit, because the silence they had created in anger had nearly killed him.

“I have to piss so fuckin’ bad,” Mickey admitted then, and Ian laughed loudly in the silence, feeling his face split as he fell apart in all the best ways.

~

The yacht was twice the size of the last one Mickey had been on – the one he had been shot in, where Ian’s life had inextricably and irrevocably become tied with his own.

“Holy fuck,” Ian huffed now, stepping up into their suite behind Mickey. The massive, mahogany room was at the centre of the boat – port-side – and was also twice the size of their bedroom back home.

“You have your own private balcony,” Carolyn – head stewardess – said then, flinging back a pair of dark grey curtains to reveal Athens at night through a pair of sliding glass doors. “Captain Walters will be pushing back shortly, so…”

“We’re heading out _now_?” Ian interrupted, glancing absently down at the Rolex Mickey had bought him exactly sixth months after the day they’d met, clearly put off with the thought of not being able to see the sights in the dark. “What time is it?”

“It’s just after 9pm but, we’re only pushing off dock to anchor in harbor for the night; we’ll be underway at 7am.”

“Jesus, relax Ian,” Mickey snorted, shooting his husband an exasperated look as he picked up his pre-delivered suitcase and threw it onto the bed. “You won’t miss anything.”

Despite Carolyn being right there, Ian flipped Mickey the bird, causing her to hold back a smile and Mickey to bite his lip to suppress his own.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Milkovich,” she continued, addressing Ian as she eyed him sweetly with batted eyelashes, and even though she clearly knew the situation, Mickey still wanted to tell her to back off. “Unfortunately you’ll probably wake up in the morning when the engines restart but, hopefully that just means you’ll be able to see everything! I also hope that won’t hinder your morning, though.”

Absently, Mickey thought about how there was only one thing that would hinder his morning, but he knew he didn’t have to worry about whether or not he’d be getting it once the sun came up, because after the flight, the fight, and the late night, there was _let’s fuck_ basically written in the air between he and his husband as they locked eyes.

Carolyn must have seen it.

“Okay!” she exclaimed then, clearing her throat a little before heading for the door. “There’s a call button just here, a phone just there, and please don’t ever hesitate to ask any of us for anything!”

“Thanks.”

“Oh, and breakfast is usually served at eight in the morning but…”

“Can we make it nine?” Mickey cut in, glancing wryly at Ian.

They’d need the extra time.

“Absolutely!”

“Perfect.”

As soon as they were finally left alone, Ian was at the other side of the room, sliding open the large pain of glass to stand on the balcony beside the two white chairs and matching table as the warm night air drifted in, making the curtains dance.

“I fuckin’ can’t believe I’m in Greece, Mick,” he sighed, and it was so quiet that Mickey could barely hear it on the breeze, so he strolled across the room to get closer – slipping his shoes off as he went – before wrapping his arms around Ian’s waist and lifting his chin to set it on the back of his shoulder.

“Wait ‘til you see it in daylight.” Mickey swayed a little, more from exhaustion than affection, and placed a kiss to Ian’s spine. “Right now though, we need to sleep.”

The boat shifted a hair then as the engines roared suddenly to life, the hushed vibration of them beneath their feet reminding Mickey of his car a little bit.

Turning in Mickey’s arms, Ian lifted his own and draped them over Mickey’s shoulders, hugging his head into him so he could kiss his lips gently, tasting the top one before letting his tongue linger inside for a moment that wasn’t nearly long enough.

Mickey was starting to wonder if kissing this much was normal.

Maybe it was a honeymoon thing.

“As soon as that sun rises,” Ian murmured, just as the boat shifted away from the dock, causing them to knock together slightly as they struggled for balance on the water. “I’m gunna fuck the memory of that flight from both our minds.”

Mickey didn’t know which was warmer: their thighs pressed together, Ian’s breath hot against his lips, or the night air drifting off the Mediterranean; whichever it was, Mickey stepped back automatically, pressing his palm to his cock to keep it under control as the heat lingered.

“Don’t even try me, Gallagher,” Mickey snorted, pointing a finger accusingly before returning to his suitcase to pull out his toiletry bag and pyjama pants. “Not tonight.”

With a small laugh, Ian slipped back into the room, sliding the glass door closed and shutting the curtains, leaving them alone in the warm glow of the lamplight.

“I don’t know how many more times I’m gunna have to tell you that I prefer Milkovich now, Mick…”

Against his will, a smile tugged up the corner of Mickey’s lips at that as he grabbed Ian’s meds out of their shared little bag and held them up in the air between them, distracting himself before he melted away into nothing.

“Okay then, take these, _Milkovich_ , before I get _really_ pissy and you have to fuck another outburst from my memory.” Mickey tossed the meds and Ian caught them, narrowing his green eyes teasingly before Mickey turned for the bathroom and closed the door behind him, allowing it to cock-block him in the best possible way.

“I wish I could fuck all the memories out of you right now!” Ian called through the door, causing Mickey to snort in the silence as he glanced around the massive glass ensuite.

“Tomorrow, Gallagher!” he yelled back, using the name on purpose, just to be an asshole.

“Oh for fuck’s sake…”

Mickey grinned stupidly to himself despite the tiredness.

~

There was bright sunlight seeping in past the curtains when Ian peeled his eyes open; he had heard the engines start, sending a slight vibration throughout his bones that he barely felt, but it was enough to wake him.

Pushing himself up, Ian glanced at his husband beside him in the muted light; Mickey was still fast asleep, his bare, alabaster back facing upwards as he snuggled his face further into the pillow, and Ian couldn’t help the warmth that spread throughout his chest at the quiet image, or the quickening blood that had already been working its way into his cock.

Smiling, Ian threw back the blanket gently and strolled over to the curtains, taking a single deep breath to prepare himself before flinging them aside.

The sunlight that cascaded over him suddenly seemed brighter than any sunlight Ian had ever known, its harsh whiteness making him blink erratically before his eyes could adjust to the world outside.

There were boats dotted around them to the horizon, glinting in the early morning rays, and the sky was clearer than the water that sparkled all around them, bluer than anything Ian had ever seen – besides Mickey’s eyes that time it had rained on a sunny day in October.

Glancing back quickly to make sure he hadn’t woken his husband, Ian quietly slid open the glass and stepped out, the sudden breeze catching the longer strands of his tousled red hair and making them flutter.

Athens was slowly becoming smaller behind them as they pushed forward, the boat gaining speed as the waters opened up. Ian felt his mind drift into nothingness as he took in the sight for a moment before it was gone completely, leaning his bare arms forward onto the railing as he watched the warm, beige city and its rocky outcrops get more indistinct. It was stunning, and seeing it laid out there before him in real life almost made him cry.

Looking down at the water below, the white wake they were creating and the passing waves made Ian feel nauseous for a single second; so he squeezed his eyes shut – suddenly reminded once more of the tingle between his thighs that still hadn’t quite gone away – and stood in answering, making his way back into the room.

Ian left the door open, allowing that warm breeze to flow in as he slipped his boxers off and slid back into bed, sidling up to lay against his husband’s side. The Greek sun made Mickey’s skin seem extra fragile; Ian was sure that the soft, blonde hairs of his body stood out more prominently than they did in the Chicagoan sun back home, even if it didn’t quite make sense.

Nothing had changed for Ian beside legalities; he still wanted to have Mickey in every way he possibly could, and planned on never breaking that promise – he was a Milkovich now, after all.

Since the wedding, Ian had had Mickey on the car; in a parking lot; on the couch; on the hardwood floors; against the dining table; on the stairs – twice.

Since the wedding, Ian had had Mickey in rage; in sadness; in annoyance; in happiness; in frustration; in fear and doubt.

Now, Ian was going to have him slow and full of contentedness, on the shores of another country as waters that weren’t dark or haunting churned around them, making the heart within him beat at a pace he hadn’t known since North Side.

Reaching out, Ian let the tips of his fingers touch Mickey’s spine, swirling them around as he drew shapes against his flesh, and he felt the smile that spread across his own face as Mickey’s skin reacted to his touch, goosebumps raising themselves up with every graze of Ian’s fingers, and the sight only made him harder.

“Hey baby,” Ian whispered, leaning his head down so he could graze his lips lightly along Mickey’s shoulder in the sunlight – could feel his warmth against his mouth.

When Mickey didn’t answer, Ian trailed his fingers up further, dancing them over his muscles, along his shoulder blades, ever-so-delicately writing his own name there, as if somehow that would cement himself into Mickey’s entire being more than the tattoo did.

“Mmmm,” Mickey mumbled finally, and the smile that Ian pressed against Mickey’s back at the sound was surely brighter than the Mediterranean skies.

“I need you,” Ian sighed, the words so breathy and wanting that Ian reached down to grab hold of himself immediately, gently massaging the precum that was steadily forming down over his tip and along his veins.

“What time is it?” Mickey raised his head a little to glance around, but it fell back down at once as Ian let go of himself then and put his fingers back on Mickey’s skin, leaving a cool trail of wetness as he swirled them around and around. “Fuck, Ian,” Mickey sighed, and it was just as breathy and wanting. “That feels so fuckin’ good.”

Without answering, Ian pushed himself up, shifting the blanket back so he could straddle Mickey’s clothed ass, his hard dick resting perfectly between his perfect cheeks. Leaning forward, Ian laid his hands on Mickey’s back, kneading his muscles with just enough force that Mickey moaned into the pillow. 

“This better?” Ian breathed, watching the way the tip of his cock was making Mickey’s pants wet.

“Christ.” Mickey’s breathing picked up as he clearly felt not just the moisture, but the increased pressure of Ian’s ministrations, and it wasn’t lost on Ian how Mickey’s hips swiveled a little, rubbing himself down into the mattress. “I’m gunna cum if you don’t let me turn over…”

A laugh escaped Ian’s chest at that, and he bent forward, letting his nose rest in Mickey’s hair for a moment as he breathed him in; fuck, that smell could wake Ian from the dead – like sweat, sleep, whiskey, South Side, cigarettes, and home.

Sliding himself backwards down Mickey’s outstretched legs, Ian slipped Mickey’s pants off with him as he went, tossing them somewhere onto the floor when he finally set his husband free of any constraints.

“Fuck I love this ass,” Ian panted, giving Mickey a quick slap on the cheek before grabbing hold of them both and squeezing, hard enough to elicit a whine from Mickey’s buried face.

“I’m so fuckin’ hard.”

“Good.” Ian gripped Mickey’s hips then and pulled harshly, causing Mickey to grunt as his ass was suddenly lifted into the air, and he went up on all fours automatically, his cock now free from the blanketed confines beneath them.

Reaching a hand around, Ian grabbed hold of Mickey at once, pressing himself flush against his back as he stroked Mickey’s own precum down over his tip to his balls and back again, making him hot and hard in Ian’s clenched fist. Ian grinded his own hips against that ass he loved just as much as the man himself in answering, feeling the way the soft hairs tickled that sensitive spot on the underside of his head.

“Oh shit,” Ian huffed, biting into the skin of Mickey’s back, just as Mickey bucked against him a little, shivering at the sensation of Ian’s hand wrapped tight around him.

“I fuckin’ need it, Ian,” Mickey begged, his head sinking back towards the mattress in pleasure, and Ian didn’t need to be asked twice.

“I wanna see you.” Letting go of Mickey’s cock, Ian coiled that same arm around his husband’s waist and flipped him over with so much force that Mickey actually laughed as the air left his lungs – his teeth showing white in the sunlight as they floated on the sea – and looking down at Mickey from between his thighs in that moment, Ian couldn’t have given less of a fuck about the new, unfamiliar world beyond that open door.

“Come here,” Mickey whispered, wrapping his legs gently around Ian’s waist as he sat there wedged between them, and Ian knew his husband wanted him to fall forward then – wanted him to consume him whole and fast – but Ian wasn’t in the mood for fast.

“Let me look a you for a sec.” Sitting back further on his knees, Ian let Mickey’s legs hang loosely around his hips as he reached his hands out, laying them gently onto Mickey’s thighs and rubbing soft circles over them, watching the way Mickey’s cock twitched at the sensation as it laid flat against his stomach.

As if drawn by some primal need, Ian leaned forward slowly, placing his nose into the course hair at the base of his husband’s dick, letting it rest there for a second as he breathed him in once more, that same musty scent of sleep and sweat making his own belly tighten as he slid his hands up, scratching his nails gently over Mickey’s abs.

“Shit that’s hot,” Mickey panted, raising his pelvis a little to meet Ian’s face, causing his cock to caress Ian’s cheek as Ian eyed Mickey from below, gazing at his blue eyes over the plains of his stomach and chest, and the sight of Mickey’s open mouth made Ian smile against the hair.

Sometimes, Ian forgot that Mickey had never been with another man before him – that he had spent nearly his entire life with women, trying to hide who he was until he couldn’t take it anymore; but when Ian _did_ remember that fact once in a while – as he did now – it never failed to make heat radiate throughout his soul and make him hard in a way that didn’t quite make sense.

“You’re all mine,” he whispered at the thought, dragging his nose up from Mickey’s pelvis, laying his tongue gently to his skin as he licked him slowly – passionately – over that thin wisp of hair; in and around his belly button; up his clenching stomach; between his pecs – lingering side to side to bite at his nipples and make them wet and hard; up his neck to his jaw…

Ian could taste the salt of Mickey’s skin just as much as the salt on the air from the sea, and the thrill of all of it – so new yet so familiar – made him thrust himself forward a little when his lips reached Mickey’s, the head of his cock rubbing between Mickey’s balls and making him leak.

~

When Ian’s lips finally met his own, Mickey couldn’t believe he hadn’t blown already; he had seen his husband go slow before and worship every inch of him, but not like this; there was a look in Ian’s eyes that was unfamiliar and raw, and there was a passion on his tongue that lingered on Mickey’s skin long after it had left it and found its way into his mouth.

The breeze picked up a little suddenly, and Mickey could feel the wet coolness from Ian’s cock on his ass, making him harder than he had ever been.

“Fuck,” Mickey shuddered, breath hot in Ian’s mouth, causing Ian to push himself up abruptly and pull away, looking down at him then from above as if he were the most beautiful thing Ian had ever seen, and the soft appreciation on his face made Mickey feel way more exposed than he already was.

Taking the brief moment of quiet, Mickey simply stared back up at his husband; the Mediterranean sun made Ian’s skin glow, and the warmth around them made his freckles seem even darker somehow – made them stand out like they had been saturated.

“You’re so beautiful, Mick,” Ian whispered then – stealing the words right from Mickey’s mouth. Mickey would have made a snarky comment about being so soft, but he didn’t – he loved it too much; he loved feeling like he was vulnerable and cared for, as long as it was with Ian.

Falling back down, Ian placed one more deep kiss to Mickey’s mouth, and Mickey was fully aware of the tiny sound of complaint that escaped his own throat when Ian broke free of his body then and stood, strolling into the bathroom in the morning sun.

Smiling as he watched him move, Mickey thought absently that Ian belonged here – that Ian’s mind and his body belonged to the Greeks – like the God Mickey thought he was – and that pink, jagged scar on his stomach was simply a crack in his marble.

When Ian returned with the lube, he set it on the bedside table – where Mickey knew it would stay for the next ten days – before squeezing some out onto his hand, just standing there in the growing heat as he gazed down at Mickey, his mouth falling open the smallest bit, and Mickey watched Ian’s cock intently then as Ian rubbed that lube down over himself – his long fingers making quick work of it – causing Mickey to grab hold of his own dick in answering, squeezing hard and forcing more precum out onto his tightened fist.

“This is gunna be slow,” Ian panted, letting go of himself before flopping down onto the bed and nuzzling his hips back between Mickey’s thighs, and Mickey opened to him without hesitation, wrapping his legs back around Ian’s waist where they belonged; but apparently, Ian had other plans. “No,” he whispered then, taking hold of Mickey’s legs and lifting them, hooking both his knees over his shoulders as he pressed forward. “Like this.”

“Fuck.” Mickey felt himself expand a little at the angle, but welcomed it as he worked his dick in his hand, watching as Ian’s face contorted, his freckled fingers guiding himself inside slowly, gently, causing Mickey’s eyes to close and his head to sink back into the pillow. “Yea,” Mickey whimpered, the un-prepped tightness burning gloriously. “Yea, yea like that.”

Jesus it was achingly slow – Ian pressing his way in like Mickey might shatter into shards of glass if he went too fast – but the dull, drawn-out pain made Mickey’s insides tighten – made his cock throb in his hand as his balls pulled up.

A long, guttural moan escaped Ian’s chest when he finally sunk all the way in, the beautiful fullness making Mickey’s eyes flutter back open. Ian’s body was perfectly flush against Mickey’s ass and the backs of his thighs while his knees draped over Ian’s shoulders, and Mickey swore he could feel the slight tremble of Ian’s body against him.

“Fuckin’ Hell, Mick.” Ian turned his head, closing his eyes as he sunk his teeth into Mickey’s ankle beside his face – like he just needed something to ground him – and the action made Mickey work his own cock faster in his hand, the sound of his moisture slipping out into the room.

Ian just sat inside for a moment – opening Mickey up in more ways than one – before he slipped out nearly all the way, then slowly pushed himself back in, grazing Mickey’s prostate as he went, sending fire throughout parts of Mickey he didn’t even know existed.

“Oh shit, shit.”

“So tight, baby, fuck.”

“Christ, right there Ian.” Mickey thrust himself up with every down stroke, meeting Ian halfway so they came together as deeply as possible as Ian rolled his hips like he was slowing churning fucking butter, shifting forward one hard thrust at a time, every single push passing over Mickey’s sweet spot, and Jesus fucking Christ, it was like being tortured with love and pleasure.

“That good?” Ian panted, his teeth sinking deeper into Mickey’s flesh, and Mickey felt his own breath quicken as Ian’s breathed hot against his skin.

“Fuck yes, don’t stop.” Mickey gripped the bed sheets hard with his free hand, and could already feel the agonizing pulse within him, beating so goddamn leisurely to Ian’s unhurried penetrations that he knew when he finally came, it was going to break him apart.

~

Every time Ian found himself inside of Mickey again, a tiny part of his subconscious worried that it was going to feel so familiar and repetitive suddenly that it would no longer be exciting or new or pleasurable, almost like he expected that eventually, all their sex would just merge into one single experience that was always the same, and that thrill of feeling anything original or different would slowly ebb away, like you so often hear about with married couples. Every single time however, Ian was proven wrong; because fuck, apparently the general rules of life did not apply when it came to Mickey.

Never with Mickey.

Instead, every time Ian found himself inside of Mickey again, it was like the world was opening up around him, not just Mickey’s legs; it was like all the best parts of his husband were converging with all the best parts of himself, sparking something into existence that Ian figured had to be similar to the Big Bang: two bodies creating something out of nothing – something beautiful and one-of-a-kind that came from the empty nothingness their lives had once been without each other.

“I love you so much,” Ian grunted then at the thought, a sudden wave of heat tightening his balls as he pressed deeper into Mickey, so slowly that his own guilty pleasures were on the verge of shattering them both apart completely.

Ian had no idea how long they had been like this, rocking together in the morning sun and heat, their bodies rubbing, pushing, pulling, and thrusting together as an aching, monotonous orgasm built its way up inside both of them – orgasms that were now trying to burst down their fucking doors.

“I need to cum, Ian, shit,” Mickey whimpered then, his voice almost painful.

Ian’s eyes finally fluttered open at his words, and the increased light from a steadily rising sun scattered across their bodies, making them fucking shine, and the new position of that same sun in the sky cast reflections of water around them, making the room dance in a mosaic of light, with Mickey at the centre of it all.

Fuck, why was that so fucking beautiful?

A tear rolled down Ian’s cheek then for a reason he didn’t think he’d ever understand, and he wrapped his arms around Mickey’s thighs in answering, thrusting his hips faster, needing to push them both over the edge, but also needing to be as close to Mickey as he possibly could be.

“Fuck,” Ian panted, leaning forward a little so Mickey’s legs shifted further on his shoulders, his dick going so deep suddenly that Mickey’s features instantly shifted – pain, pleasure, heartbreak, euphoria – as his hand worked his cock at a speed Ian had never quite seen.

“Yea yea Ian shit, right there right there right there…”

This fucking man.

Ian could feel the sweat streaming down his forehead as he stared at his husband, watching the way his face fell apart as his body shuddered suddenly to life, his asshole gripping Ian’s cock so hard that Ian let out a moan that was so fucking desperate he thought he was actually sobbing.

Mickey came then – massive, pearlescent ropes spurting onto his chest as Ian pounded into his prostate – and Ian wasn’t exactly sure, but he thought Mickey’s orgasm lasted at least ten seconds before his own suddenly gripped him at the sight, the achingly slow build-up making Ian’s stomach tighten, his ass clench, his balls draw up, as he exploded into fucking nothing, his arms wrapping so tightly around Mickey’s legs as he came so far inside him then that he got lost for a moment, not knowing where his own skin ended and Mickey’s begun.

~

Jesus fucking Christ, Mickey thought he’d left the land of the living for a solid ten seconds, nothing registering in his brain but the heat of his own cum as it landed on his chest and the feel of Ian’s cock so deep inside him he was positive they were finally merging into one.

When he finally opened his eyes, Ian was leaning heavily against his legs, panting like his lungs were failing, sweat dripping down his face that caught the sunlight, and Mickey couldn’t be one-hundred percent sure, but he thought Ian was maybe crying, too.

“Hey,” he whispered, reaching out for Ian’s hand that rested flat against Mickey’s stomach, laying his own over it, causing Ian to glance at him. “You okay?”

“Yea.” Ian wiped his other hand over his face, cleaning away the sweat and maybe the tears, turning away slightly as if not wanting Mickey to see.

Mickey _did_ want to see – he wanted to see every part of Ian, at all times; he never wanted him to hide. Sometimes though, Mickey knew when to push, and when to leave it.

“Wanna go get some breakfast?” he ventured, changing the subject instead as the warmth within him only grew.

Glancing back in his direction, Ian simply nodded before finally slipping himself out, making Mickey wince at the sensitivity.

“Where are we headed today again?” Ian asked, absently placing a kiss to Mickey’s knee before finally shifting away and standing, allowing Mickey’s legs to fall against the mattress, tingling a bit from the unusual angle and the pleasure. “I always forget the name.”

“Mykonos.”

“Mykonos,” Ian repeated, glancing down at the mess his dick had become, and a smile pulled up his lips at the sight, as if it weren’t a mess at all, but maybe a work of art.

“Here you go, Messrs. Milkovich,” Carolyn smiled, setting the plate of requested pancakes down in the middle of the dining table on the rear deck, the overhang shading them from the already intense sun as the blue sea expanded out behind them, the white wake from the boat seeming to extend for miles.

Hearing other people refer to Ian as _Mr. Milkovich_ never failed to make Mickey’s heart pound.

“Thank you,” Ian smiled, his bright, green eyes flirting a little, and Mickey wondered if the smooth bastard even knew he was doing it.

As soon as she disappeared back through the glass doors into the common area filled with couches and a bar, Mickey picked up his orange juice and drank the entire thing in a single go, stabbing the pile of pancakes with his fork and hauling a few onto his plate.

“Bacon?” Ian asked absently, holding the platter out to Mickey without even looking at him. It was like eating breakfast had become second nature to them – a perfectly choreographed dance that they both knew by heart.

“Fuck yes.” Mickey stabbed a couple slices of those, too. “Thanks.”

“Mhmm.” Ian shoved a forkful of scrambled eggs into his mouth, pink lips working overtime before something apparently caught his attention then, as he raised an auburn eyebrow at the charcuterie platter in the centre of the table, as if seeing something that confused him. “Is that caviar?” he asked, mouth half-full.

Mickey snorted at the way his voice sounded surprised, and followed his husband’s gaze.

“Yea, Ian. That’s caviar.”

“Jesus.” Ian glanced at him, his eyebrows lifting so high then they nearly touched the overhang. “Never thought I’d see the day I was served fucking caviar.”

“Ian,” Mickey sighed, his tone flat but amused. “You’re on a yacht off the coast of Greece with a known mobster…”

A smile lit Ian’s face at that like it was sexy, and he shrugged.

“Fair point.”

The doors reopened then and Carolyn stepped back out, strolling casually towards Mickey before leaning over him slightly to speak in his ear.

“I’ve arranged for your dinner tomorrow, Mr. Milkovich,” she stated, her smile so sweet that Mickey thought he’d get cavities. “For 7pm as requested, and we will plan a pick-up at 1am on the docks.” 

“Thank you.”

“Wait,” Ian spat, his eyes narrowing in curiosity. “What dinner?” Ian eyed Mickey hesitantly before glancing at the stewardess, but she just smiled and kept mum, placing a hand on Mickey’s shoulder for reassurance or some shit before disappearing once again.

Ian’s foot connected hard with Mickey’s shin under the table, causing Mickey to snort out a laugh at his husband’s annoyed face.

“Jesus,” he huffed, leaning across the table to refill his glass of orange juice. “I asked them to plan a dinner on the island tomorrow night, alright!?”

Ian’s face lit up.

“On Mykonos!?”

“Fuck, yes! We _do_ get to leave the boat, y’know…”

Ian rolled his eyes.

“Oh well sorry I don’t know everything about being on a fuckin’ yacht cruise, Mick.”

Mickey bit back a smile.

“There’s a popular gay club I thought we could check out after,” he admitted, his chest fluttering a little at the thought. Mickey had never been one for clubs, considering he worked in them – and ran them – for most of his adult life; but there was something exciting about going to one with Ian in a warm, sunny place – something exciting about having foreign bodies pressing in around them while they focused on nothing but each other.

“ _Really?_ ” Ian scoffed, because clearly, he knew his husband better than anyone.

“Yea, really.” Mickey kept his eyes locked on Ian’s, and could already imagine his chiseled, freckled body sweating and moving to the music in the pulse of coloured lights, bringing them both alive.

A faint, sly smile pulled up the corner of Ian’s mouth then as his eyes narrowed somewhat seductively – as if he knew all of Mickey’s thoughts and all of his plans – and if it weren’t for the sudden reappearance then of Carolyn and the chef, Mickey would have thrown all that fucking food into the sea, just so he could fuck Ian again right there on the table.

~

Mykonos reminded Ian of finding water after a year in the desert; he had spent the entire afternoon the day before standing on their balcony when they had finally arrived, staring at the way the smooth, white buildings echoed the stain of dried salt on the rocks and on the pier, and the way the random bright hues of blues and reds painted boldly on different balconies and different walls made the entire place come alive. It was like an oasis.

The hills beyond were barren and dry, which only made the aqua sea and the city stand out even more prominently, like a Technicolor dream.

“You ready?” Mickey asked then – finally emerging from the bathroom – forcing Ian to tear himself away from the island as they swayed gently on the waves in the cove that were drifting in lazily, the yacht anchored to the sandy bottom.

“Fuck ye...,” Ian stopped – his eyes raking suddenly over his dark-haired husband – and his chest immediately fluttered at the sight of him, the heat inside his thighs increasing exponentially as he struggled for a moment to breathe.

Mickey was wearing a long pair of white, cotton pants, the fit of which was so perfect that Ian could see the immaculate curve of his ass through the thin fabric. Tucked into the waist was a navy, short-sleeved button-down, with matching white pinstripes. At his waist was a dark, caramel-coloured belt, and on his feet were a matching pair of boat shoes.

To top it all off, Mickey was wearing a pair of black Ray Bans, his matching black hair slicked perfectly back, and fucking Hell, Ian thought he looked like he had walked straight off the set of a movie in the nineteen-forties, and he wasn’t just an extra, he was the fucking star.

“Christ,” Ian whispered, feeling that warmth inside him only rise as his face went hot. “You look fuckin’....” He couldn’t even finish the sentence.

Mickey glanced up at him, eyebrows rising over the rim of his sunglasses, making Ian smile.

“Yea?”

“Fuck yes, Jesus.” Ian stepped towards him, wrapping his arms around Mickey’s waist – feeling the softness of his clothes over the hardness of his body – and Ian’s dick instantly woke up from its nap. “Think we have time?”

Rolling his eyes, Mickey glanced down at the Rolex on his wrist before stepping back out of Ian’s grasp – much to his chagrin – as a smirk edged up his lips.

“No. We have to go. The crew is already waiting to take us in.”

Ian wasn’t above begging as he fingered the threads of Mickey’s shirt and stared at his own reflection in Mickey’s Ray Bans.

“Mickey, I promise, if you keep the clothes on, I’ll be done in two minutes…”

“No.”

Annoyance flowed through Ian like petulant child, but he sighed anyways, resigning himself to the fact that he had married a man who stuck to plans like glue.

“Fiiiiine.”

“Oh fuck off,” Mickey chuckled, flipping him the bird as he turned for the door. “But maybe if you hurry up and you’re not too drunk later, we can fuck on the balcony...”

Ian’s feet were moving before his mind could even catch up, basically flying out into the hallway towards the awaiting crew.

~

Mickey watched Ian as he stepped up out of the smaller boat and onto the dock; he knew Ian had said that _he_ himself looked good – and the hunger in his green eyes had told Mickey he definitely wasn’t fucking lying – but Mickey didn’t think anyone could ever hold a candle to Ian, not even himself.

Ian’s bright orange hair was combed back against his head, glowing in the early evening light like the sun itself as he towered over the people strolling past; he had on a pair of salmon-coloured shorts that Mickey was convinced were made specifically for his long legs, wide thighs, and perfect ass. Dangling over those shorts was a simple, white, v-neck t-shirt, and on his feet were a laced-up pair of low-top white Converse he had gotten before they’d left.

It looked like he walked straight off the set of an H&M summer photo shoot.

“Here, sweetheart,” Ian crooned facetiously, holding his hand out to Mickey from above in a teasing offer to help him up out of the boat, and Mickey gave him a look of disgust before slapping his hand away.

“Fuck off, I can get up myself.” 

“You sure? You have little legs…”

Philippe – the French bosun – bit back a laugh.

“You want me to leave you here?” Mickey barked, jumping up onto the dock without much effort. “’Cause I will fuckin’ leave you here.”

Coming forward at once at the sound of that threat, Ian wrapped his arms around Mickey’s waist once more, pulling him in to rest against his body in the sunlight, and despite the audience of people who mingled on the pier and on the shore, Mickey let him.

“You promised you’d never leave me,” Ian whispered into his ear, nipping gently at his earlobe, causing Mickey to almost throw him off the dock into the water before he got a hard on in front of all of Mykonos.

“Yea yea, alright tough guy.”

Philippe coughed from the boat then, and Mickey turned back towards him, allowing Ian to intertwine their fingers together as a flush rose up into his cheeks.

“I will umm… _revenir_ …here at 1am,” the Frenchman said, his words a mixed dialect, and Mickey liked the way it sounded.

“Sure thing, see you then.”

Their reservation wasn’t for an hour, so Mickey took Ian through the streets, their hands still wrapped together as they walked over the large, dark flagstone; the smell of flowers lingered in the air as they hung bright from the sides of white-washed walls, the occasional petal floating past them on the sea breeze, and even though it wasn’t really something Mickey took much heed in, he knew Ian probably thought it was romantic as shit.

People jostled together on the streets and in open doorways, different voices in different languages reaching their ears as the constant thrum of liveliness made everything vibrant – made everything feel like the city was coming alive as it breathed life into the strangers lucky enough to be there.

Music was drifting from patio bars, houses, and restaurants – just a continuous sound that merged into one, single melody that probably made Ian’s nerves vibrate; so Mickey increased his grip on his husband’s hand automatically, absently wondering if he’d be able to feel the electricity of this place through his porcelain skin.

“I need to get something,” Ian said suddenly, drawing Mickey’s attention back towards him, and the way his own sunglasses over his eyes made Ian’s hair look darker than normal made him want to take them off.

“Whatta you mean?”

Ian shrugged, his thumb rubbing carelessly over Mickey’s knuckles.

“Like a souvenir or something.”

“For your family?” Mickey raised an eyebrow, glancing absently around the street then to see if anything could fit the bill.

“Yea, and maybe something for us.”

“For us?”

“Yea, like a magnet or a shot glass, or something stupid.”

For some weird reason, Mickey liked that idea – he liked the idea of the things they had done together – the places they had been – being on display for the world to see, just like their wedding photos were already hanging in their bedroom and over their fireplace.

“Alright.”

~

Everything about this place made Ian wish he had known a long time ago that this is where he’d end up; that every shitty thing he did – and every shitty place he went to in his mind – would lead him to this sunny place on the shores of the Mediterranean, with the man he loved more than life itself intertwined in his fingers; because maybe then, he wouldn’t have lost so many hours being fucking sad.

This place made Ian feel like he did when he used to dance – like every single nerve-ending in his body was a livewire, and if he closed his eyes, he could get lost in the sunlight, in the warmth, in the sounds of the sea and the smell of seafood that drifted with the music on the breeze.

“Want me to carry that?” Mickey asked suddenly, pulling Ian from his reverie as he pointed to the little bag in Ian’s hand that held the magnet and the shot glass, as if it were just too heavy for Ian to manage alone.

For some reason, that question only made Ian love him more, and also made him remember the first night they had met, when Mickey had offered to carry his bag upstairs…

“Yea my arm’s really fuckin’ fallin’ off here, Mick…” Ian jested, amazed at just how far they’d come.

“Fuck you, just thought I’d ask.”

As if he couldn’t help it, Ian leaned forward, pressing his lips to Mickey’s temple as he untangled their fingers and wrapped his arm around his husband’s shoulders, holding him close against his body.

To Ian’s satisfaction, Mickey didn’t pull away, despite the crowds and his disdain for public displays of affection.

“How far is the restaurant?” Ian queried then, smiling at a family that strolled past them, their sun-kissed skin making him envious.

“Just around the corner.”

“Good, I’m starving.”

Seafood was better in the Mediterranean, Ian decided – not that he would really know for sure of course, because Chicago wasn’t anywhere near an ocean, so he’d never really understood the point in eating it.

“Dessert?” Mickey asked absently, staring at Ian from across the table; they were on a patio on the shore, the sun setting gold behind Mickey’s shoulders, giving him a halo that Ian thought was well deserved – despite their past – as the waves crashed quietly against the sand.

“Fuck no, I’m stuffed.” Ian returned his gaze to the water, watching the way it sparkled, the azure blue darkening as the light slowly disappeared.

A quiet _ping_ caught Ian’s attention then – the sound of an email coming in on his phone – so he reached into his pocket and pulled it out, fully expecting to see an email from his siblings back home. It had been easier to email back and forth instead of paying for ridiculous long distance charges or worrying about service, even thought they could now technically afford it.

What Ian hadn’t expected – not quite yet at least – was an admissions email.

“Holy shit!” he exclaimed, his heart beating faster in his chest as a nervous excitement worked its way throughout him, making him smile against his will.

“What?” Mickey’s voice was apprehensive and Ian couldn’t blame him – in their life so far, it wasn’t often that new news was good news.

“I got accepted into the EMT training course in the spring!” Ian spat, glancing up at his husband – looking to him for reassurance as much as for praise – as butterflies flapped joy against his ribs

As always, Mickey never let him down; a smile pulled up the corner of his pretty mouth and his face went soft – soft like it had when he’d read his vows.

“Good for you,” he said simply, raising his hand a little to grab the attention of the waiter, who strolled over without hesitation.

“Yes, sir?”

“Can we get a bottle of your best champagne, please?” Mickey queried, and Ian felt his smile widen; he wasn’t in the mood to protest. “We need to celebrate.”

“Of course, sir.”

The waiter disappeared, and Ian couldn’t help but stare at the man across from him – a man who looked back at him as if he had never once doubted him or what he was capable of, even if Ian himself always had. 

If you had asked Ian Gallagher on Thursday, April 9th at 2 o’clock in the morning just where he thought he would be two weeks before Christmas, he probably would have said alone in his apartment, with a phone full of clients, a bottle full of pills, and a chest full of guilt and regrets; but if you had waited just a day and asked him again on Friday – had asked him on Good Friday where he thought he’d be two weeks before Christmas as a black-haired stranger stood beside him in the night – Ian might have said that anything was possible, and that a single moment can change the course of a lifetime.

“I’m so fuckin’ proud of you,” Mickey whispered then, tearing Ian from his wonderings, and he felt his eyes burn a little with the emotions that crowded him like a million writhing bodies.

“I wouldn’t be here without you,” Ian admitted, clearing his throat as he tried not to cry. “And I don’t just mean here at this table, Mickey. I mean all of it.”

Mickey eyed him, his gaze growing glossy in the fading sun as his fingers drummed suddenly on the table, which Ian knew was something he did when he was about to be softer than normal.

“I don’t think that, Ian,” Mickey confessed quietly, taking a sip of his Scotch. “You’d have found a way to become the person you’ve always wanted to be, whether I had found you or not; because you’re the most stubborn, hard-headed, smartest, unbreakable person I know, and you’d have found a way.”

Ian felt himself smile – felt his insides glow like the last rays of sun that sunk beyond the sea.

“Maybe,” he whispered with a shrug, his body moving before his mind could as he pushed himself up to lean over the table and kiss his husband like he had always wanted to. “But I wouldn’t have wanted to.”

Mickey chuckled against his mouth.

“You wouldn’t have wanted to find a way?”

Ian pulled back enough to look down into those blue eyes.

“No, I mean I wouldn’t have wanted to do it without you.”

~

It was dark by the time they strolled back onto the street, Ian’s contentedness and buzz from the champagne abundantly clear as he wrapped himself around Mickey’s arm like a snake, the cooler air of the night making him shiver slightly against his navy button-down.

Light was ebbing outwards from apartment windows and restaurant doors, and somehow the sounds of music had only increased despite the waning day, giving Mickey the notion that the city was about to come alive instead of die down for the night.

“Here,” Mickey said then, shifting Ian’s gift bag into his other hand so he could reach around and pull out his wallet. “Got somethin’ for ya.”

Ian eyed him, his eyebrows furrowing a little in confusion as Mickey produced the tiny bag he had had in his wallet since Chicago.

“What the fuck is that?” Ian mumbled, squinting in the red half-light of a bar. ”Are those gummy bears?”

“Yup,” Mickey admitted, a smile pulling across his face as he pulled two out and handed them to Ian. “Courtesy of Fergal Maguire.”

It took a moment, but understanding finally fluttered across Ian’s features, and he grinned like a child on Christmas.

“How potent are these?”

Mickey just shrugged, taking the other two and popping them into his mouth; Fergal had told him that one would chill them out and that two would be a good fucking time; looking at Ian in the moment, Mickey had decided there really was only one option.

“Fuck it,” Ian spat, and popped them both in his mouth, wincing only slightly at the almost imperceptible taste of weed before swallowing, his Adam’s apple bobbing in the shadows making Mickey’s stomach twist and his face flush.

“You ready to go clubbin’, Galla…Milkovich?” Mickey stuttered, eying his husband in the night air, unable to help himself as he pushed up a little onto his toes to kiss the warmth under Ian’s ear.

“Yea.” Ian moaned at the sensation, before a soft chuckle escaped his chest. “But if I end up completely naked by the end of the night, blame yourself and Fergal Maguire.”

Mickey hid his smile in the crook of Ian’s neck, and almost hoped that it would come to pass, if only so he could scan the faces of everyone inside a gay nightclub as they watched his husband dance, and Mickey could have the satisfaction of knowing that the only one Ian would be leaving with was himself.

Mickey could hear the thudding base a few blocks away, and could see the flashing glow of coloured lights that pulsed out into the night; this usually wasn’t his type of scene – Mickey didn’t dance, and he sure as shit didn’t party unless the occasion called for it – but with Ian pressed so close against him and the thought of finally being free echoing through his mind, Mickey thought he’d at least take the time and enjoy it, considering in just over a week, they’d be back to reality in snowy Chicago.

More than that, Mickey thought he somehow owed it to Ian; Ian loved to dance, and he loved the music; after almost a year of struggling to find themselves, Mickey thought Ian deserved to get lost once more – lost inside the rhythm of a lifestyle that had kept him afloat long enough that Mickey was able to find him and pull him ashore.

“I’m gunna make you dance,” Ian said then, his voice hushed amongst the beat as his mouth pressed into Mickey’s ear, and Mickey felt his skin ripple at the touch of his breath.

“Oh you think?”

“Oh, I _know_.”

Mickey smiled against his will, and thought maybe – if it were Ian asking – he’d do it.

Twenty minutes after their arrival, Ian was already on the dance floor, the gummies well on their way to kicking in. Mickey watched him from their private booth in the corner, his outer edges becoming loose and fuzzy as Ian swayed in the centre of the room like he was actually made of sound, his entire body shifting back and forth with closed eyes as his arms hung gracefully over his head.

Ian was getting lost inside of _everything_ , just like Mickey knew he would, and if it weren’t for the weed, Mickey was sure he’d be getting a hard on from the way Ian’s pale face flushed redder in the heat of the bodies surrounding him – pressed so close that Mickey felt his jaw clench with jealousy and a bit of possessive anger every time someone accidentally brushed against his husband, the occasional stranger turning to apologize but smiling instead when they saw the freckled face that was too far gone to even care.

Some jackass reached out now, placing his hand on Ian’s shoulder as he moved closer towards him like he was just some prize to be won. Ian smiled at the stranger’s sudden touch, which only made Mickey’s brows furrow and his chest tighten as that jealousy tried to claw its way through his ribs and turn itself to rage; that was until Ian’s eyes fluttered open and his face fell when he saw the unknown person that held him, and he stepped out of their grasp, turning his head automatically – searching for Mickey amongst the crowd – and that smile returned instantly when their eyes met, like Ian suddenly felt safer, loved, and protected.

Fucking right he did.

Smiling back at him, that jealous anger ebbed away when Mickey realized absently in his stoned state that Ian had probably thought it was Mickey who had come to touch him in the horde and the heat, and just knowing it had made him smile that much gave Mickey all the courage he needed.

Standing, Mickey chugged the rest of his beer before slamming the bottle down, gliding down the steps, and strolling across the dance floor towards Ian, whose mouth fell open a bit as he watched him unblinking, the hunger in his eyes untainted and raw.

~

Mickey looked like a porn star again, but Ian didn’t know why, because he wasn’t naked, and they definitely – unfortunately – weren’t about to fuck in the middle of the dance floor; but the way he moved with purpose towards Ian through the crowd, completely unafraid and unflinching, made Ian’s cock twitch a little in his shorts.

A smile pulled up Mickey’s lips as he pushed closer, and Ian went forward at once, the drugs in his system ensuring he didn’t give a flying fuck about shoving others out of the way so he could reach the only one he wanted to be close to.

“Hey,” Ian said, much too quiet for the base that beat out around them and made his bones vibrate, but Mickey heard it, his own smile only growing.

“Hey.” Mickey reached his hands out, sliding them up over Ian’s bare arms, letting them rest on his biceps, and Ian thought he felt like electricity.

“You gunna dance with me?” Ian asked, tilting his head a little as he grasped onto the sides of Mickey’s shirt, pulling him in closer.

Ian just needed to _feel_ him then, so he leaned forward, dragging his lips along Mickey’s stubbled jaw, and he closed his eyes to the prickly sensation, the weed making him absolutely positive that he could count each individual hair with just the tip of his tongue.

A small moan escaped Mickey’s throat at Ian’s touch – Ian could feel the vibration against his open mouth that sucked kisses to his neck.

“I’ll take that as a _yes_.” Ian sunk his teeth gently into Mickey’s collarbone, pulling his body even more flush against him, and he could instantly feel Mickey’s erection against his own.

_Fuck_.

Closing his eyes once more, Ian slid his hands up along Mickey’s body, untucking his shirt as he went, feeling every hardened muscle beneath the fabric, every skin cell making Ian’s come alive as the sweat dripped from them both.

“I can’t dance,” Mickey admitted then, a whisper in Ian’s ear, but he sounded like he was living inside Ian’s head, which he usually was, ninety-nine percent of the time.

“It’s okay, baby. I can dance.” Ian draped his arms over Mickey’s neck, cupping his head like it was a fragile fucking gift before dragging him in so close they felt like one single person, and Mickey wrapped his arms tightly around Ian’s waist in answering, causing Ian to press his forehead against his husband’s, breathing in his scent that somehow overpowered the smell of sweat, sea air, and booze.

Ian had never felt more fucking alive than he did in that moment – the strongest, most indestructible man he had ever known held firm underneath him as the music got abruptly louder, and pulsing pink and blue lights flashed suddenly behind his lids.

As if second nature, Ian began swaying to the noise that consumed him, his hips grazing side to side against Mickey’s, begging for him to follow without needing the words.

As if second nature, Mickey seemed to understand at once, and he let his body meld into Ian’s, allowing him to guide them to the rhythm, and all Ian could feel were their hearts beating against each other as their blood pumped in unison.

“I’ll take care of you,” Ian panted, letting his face sink into Mickey’s neck, and the sudden love and power he felt at knowing he was the only one who _could_ take care of Mickey like that almost made him cry – like every emotion he had was heightened – only adding to the growing sense of euphoria.

“I fuckin’ love you,” Mickey said then, his breath hot against Ian’s shoulder, and Ian felt the sudden sensation of wetness on his t-shirt, though whether it was simply Mickey’s sweat, or if Mickey _was_ crying, Ian wasn’t altogether sure.

~

Mickey was crying and he had no fucking idea why; maybe it was just feeling Ian pressed against him in the never-ending sound and making him feel safe – making him feel loved; maybe it was the knowledge that he was in the middle of a writhing crowd holding onto the man he placed above all others without feeling afraid or like he was being judged; maybe it was the way his hips brushed against Ian’s as they danced together in the flashing lights that nearly blinded him with their beauty; maybe it was just the fucking drugs; or maybe, it was all of it – a combination of things that were converging like a million stars, turning his life from a single constellation into a fucking galaxy.

Time went by fast like that – songs merged into one long grind – and by the time Ian finally pulled away from him, Mickey was covered in sweat, and so was Ian, his white shirt nearly completely see-through, only making Mickey’s feeling of bliss grow.

“I need a cigarette!” Ian yelled over the music, his eyes hazy and half-lidded in happiness, causing Mickey to simply smile in return.

“I need another beer!” Mickey grabbed Ian’s hand instinctively, pulling him gently as they snaked their way between the bodies in the undulating horde towards the bar.

Almost all of the other patrons were men, and most of them, Mickey noticed, had deep, olive skin that was tanned to perfection, with dark hair over their bodies and on their heads; basically, Mickey thought – as he glanced back at Ian – the opposite of everything he’d ever wanted.

“I’m gunna go out to the patio!” Ian exclaimed when they reached the bar, pointing a long, pale, beautiful finger towards the two open doors at the side of the club and the handful of men who stood there, smoking.

“I’ll meet you out there in a second!” Mickey nodded, his skin rippling back to life despite the heat as Ian leaned down then and pressed their lips together, and Mickey was flying so goddamn high he thought he could taste the words that had just been on Ian’s tongue.

~

Outside, the air was cool, and Ian welcomed it, raising his arms a little so the sea breeze could get at his armpits, and Ian was flying so fucking high he thought he could feel the salt on the breeze enter into his pores.

Sliding the smoke he had pulled from the souvenir bag at their private booth between his lips, Ian turned, leaning back against the railing that sat up on a cliff above the shore as he glanced inside the club, watching Mickey as he floated in and out of view as people moved around him.

The entire time Mickey had been pressed against him – grinding his hips sublimely against his own – Ian had wanted to lean down and kiss him – make out with him in front of everybody as the music pounded almost as hard as his heart; but he had refrained, simply letting himself float higher as he felt the life pass between them, and he swore that if he had had the strength to open his eyes, he would have seen something like an aura around them – a beautiful force that held them together and kept them safe from the world.

“American?” a voice said suddenly, and Ian turned, glancing at the group of dark-haired men beside him; if it were any other circumstance, Ian may have found them all to be rather beautiful, but now, their nearly-black hair just wasn’t the right shade, and their skin was much too tan.

“Yea.”

“Easy to tell,” one of the other men laughed, his thick accent jumbling his words as his eyes raked over Ian’s body in a way he didn’t altogether like.

Standing himself up to his full height, Ian took another drag, letting the smoke escape his lips slowly as he appraised them through heavy lids.

“Yea? How’s that?” The question was rather flat, and Ian saw the way their faces changed as the three men stood closer together subconsciously at Ian’s tone, like a pack of dogs.

“You’re all the same.” The man eyed the Rolex on Ian’s wrist as if it were an unnecessary display of wealth, and Ian could almost – _almost_ – sympathize with the guy as he thought absently about growing up South Side and the gentrification of his own neighborhood to keep the rich folks happy; but also, fuck this guy, and fuck his assumptions.

Ian felt a smartass grin spread across his face as he licked his bottom lip, purposefully eyeing all three of them one by one as he shoved the smoke back in his mouth, letting it dangle haphazardly; usually, he would have just crushed out the cigarette and gone to find Mickey, but things sometimes happened when he was buzzed, and he could feel himself itching.

“You’re kind of ones to talk,” Ian spat then, a laugh escaping his chest that was much more from the gummies than his own amusement. “You look like the fuckin’ cast of Jersey Shore.”

One of them stepped forward at that, crowding directly into Ian’s space, causing Ian to lean back only slightly; but he smiled anyways despite the fist clenching at his side, and simply took another drag.

The few other people that were on the patio minding their own business stepped back a little, eyeing them warily.

“Fuckin’ ginger homo,” the man spat, his breath hot against Ian’s face, and Ian almost wanted to laugh at the fact that he’d used that term pretty derogatorily while openly out at a gay bar, but before he could protest, Ian heard the distinct sound of a bottle smashing against the floor, and his grin only widened as he looked directly into the man’s eyes, knowing exactly what was coming next.

“I’d back up if I were you,” Ian said then, his voice threatening, and he enjoyed the way the man’s brows furrowed for a split second before suddenly a tattooed hand was wrapped around his neck, pushing the man back against the railing so hard that the man was nearly bent in half.

“We got a problem here?” Mickey hissed, and the way his knuckles went white under his wedding rings against the man’s skin made Ian’s inside squeeze with heat.

One of the guy’s friends yelled something in Greek and went for Mickey’s arm, but not before Ian dropped his smoke out of instinct and cocked his arm back, landing a right hook that cracked against the guy’s nose, making it bleed instantly as he stumbled backwards in the pulsing lights, creating a surreal image that only made Ian smile.

The third guy apparently wasn’t in the mood; he just kept smoking, a slightly amused look on his face.

“You okay?” Mickey asked then, voice worried as he glanced back at Ian over his shoulder, all the while still pinning the first man down against the metal railing.

“Yea, baby, I’m great.” Ian fucking meant it; his heart was hammering in his chest, and his cock was semi-hard because he was on his fuckin’ honeymoon with Mickey Touch-My-Husband-And-I’ll-Fuck-You-Up Milkovich. Ian reached his hand out then, sliding it up under Mickey’s shirt – feeling the hot, moist skin of his sacrum – before hooking his fingers around Mickey’s belt – just above his ass – and tugging him gently away. “Come on.”

With one more shove that made the metal railing buckle slightly, Mickey let go, and the man stood at once, gasping for air as they both turned back for the dance floor.

Fuck, in that second, Ian wanted nothing more than to feel Mickey against him again – wanted to feel those same hands that had threatened some asshole touch his bare skin so fucking gently as they moved up over his body, cementing the already well-known fact in Ian’s mind that he belonged to Mickey, and nobody else.

“It’s fuckin’ hot!” Ian declared suddenly, his head swimming beautifully at that thought as the heat within him rose, the sudden nearness of the dancing crowd only making it worse. Without really thinking about it, Ian reached down for the hem of his t-shirt and pulled it off in a single motion before tossing it to the floor and fucking leaving it there, making his skin ripple at his dampness in the open air.

Mickey snorted beside him as Ian dragged him helplessly back into the music, watching as he cast a single blue-eyed gaze back at the crumpled shirt on the floor.

“The fuck you doin’, Ian?” he chuckled, but as soon as they reached the centre of the writhing crowd, Ian whirled, pressing his forehead back to Mickey’s at once and completely ignoring his unnecessary questions.

He was way too fuckin’ gone.

“I wanna see you.”

“ _What!?_ ” Mickey spat, his red eyes scanning briefly around the room. “Here!? _Now!?_ ”

“Just a little. Please?” Ian almost begged, because he was bursting at the fuckin’ seams; but despite it, he waited until Mickey nodded almost imperceptibly before his fingers flew to the buttons of his shirt, swiftly undoing them in the hypnotic lights.

As soon as Mickey’s bare torso came into view – Ian’s initials inked there above his heart – Ian pressed himself forward, letting their damp, exposed chests touch, and every nerve in Ian’s body reacted to the sensation, causing his mouth to open automatically as he wrapped his hands around Mickey’s head and pulled him in, joining their mouths together with so much force that Ian felt the earth shift as Mickey’s mouth opened to him then, their tongues sliding together in a dance that was more natural than any movement their bodies could ever convey.

~

Apparently, Mickey forgot that he hated public displays of affection; he also apparently forgot that he didn’t like dancing; because before he knew it, minutes and minutes had passed him by, and all he had known in that space of time was Ian’s tongue in his mouth and the heat of their bodies pressed together, only breaking apart for the briefest of moments to breathe, dance, and stare into each other’s eyes as the world fucking disappeared. It was as if suddenly, any inhibitions Mickey had ever had had been forgotten, and for once in his life, Mickey thought he knew what Ian felt like when he danced; for once in his life – in a place outside their bedroom – Mickey let go completely.

~

Tearing himself away from Mickey’s mouth once more, Ian watched his husband with a half-smile and a gaze that was pure mesmerization; there was a devilish smirk on Mickey’s face that hadn’t quite left, and his eyes were closed to the world, his pink, puffy lips the only real indication of what it was they had been doing only seconds before.

What was more beautiful to Ian though, was the way that every time they broke apart, Mickey raised his hands over his head and danced like there was literally nobody watching him; but the thing was, people _were_ watching; Mickey was so fucking carefree that almost every nearby gaze was on him, all of these strangers getting to see a side of him that only Ian had ever been privileged enough to bear witness to when they fucked, and Ian couldn’t believe that this wild creature – this being that was seemingly made of energy, stars, and fire – was his.

Ian had never been more in love in his life, and the fact that he knew they had to leave this place in a matter of minutes broke his fucking heart.

“Come on,” he whispered then – every fibre of his being telling him not to – and grabbed a hold of Mickey’s wrist. Mickey’s eyes fluttered open at his touch, the blue within them so fucking clear that Ian saw his future within them; but that was nothing new.

“Is it time to go?” Mickey asked – almost childlike with joy – before glancing at his own watch, his smile only fading slightly.

“Yea.” Ian leaned back in, laying another long, deep kiss to Mickey’s lips before pressing his mouth to his ear. “I recall you promised me something about my cock, your ass, and a balcony…?”

Mickey grabbed onto Ian’s belt then without another word and began hauling him towards the exit with so much force that they nearly forgot their tiny bag of souvenirs and cigarettes.

The next evening, they were harbored at the island of Milos, watching the setting sun turn the salt-white cliffs to gold as they sat on the couch at the top of the yacht, a blanket spread over their legs to keep the cooling breeze away from their skin as the first stars in the sky blinked their way into existence.

“It’s fuckin’ beautiful,” Ian sighed, finally shoving his phone back in his pocket after taking a million pictures.

“Yea, it’s alright,” Mickey snickered, the teasing tone of his voice making Ian smile as he snuggled closer to Mickey’s body, his thick arm wrapped protectively around Ian’s shoulders.

“We still gunna go cliff jumping tomorrow?” Excitement filled Ian’s chest again as he thought about _finally_ swimming in an actual sea, and he wondered absently if he’d notice if his body was lighter – if it would float easier here than it did in Lake Michigan.

“Yea, there’s an amazing beach nearby called Sarakiniko.” Mickey took another sip of the beer Carolyn had brought him before snubbing his cigarette out in the ashtray. “There’s caves and stuff apparently.”

Ian simply nodded, feeling his lids grow suddenly heavy, heavy; they hadn’t gotten much sleep after returning from Mykonos, and although Ian was feeling it now, he definitely wasn’t going to complain.

“Hey, sleepy face,” Mickey whispered then, placing a finger under Ian’s chin and lifting it a little. “Let’s go to bed.”

“It’s only like eight o’clock!” Ian tried to protest like he actually gave a shit, but just the idea of being wrapped up beside Mickey as they lulled to sleep to the gentle rocking of the boat made his eyes sink farther closed.

“Yea, okay tough guy,” Mickey taunted, standing up suddenly without warning, causing Ian to fall down against the couch cushions. “Come on.” Mickey held his hands out, and Ian pouted.

“Can we sleep here?” he asked, really not wanting to get up.

“Fuck no, we’ll freeze to death.”

Ian snorted.

“We’re from Chicago, Mick. We’ll survive.”

Mickey rolled his eyes.

“You gunna make me carry you?”

Ian couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face at that idea.

“Pff, like you could, Little League.”

Apparently, Mickey took that as a challenge, because before Ian could protest, Mickey had bent down and shoved his shoulder into Ian’s stomach, pushing his arm forcefully under Ian’s thighs so he could hoist him up like a sack of potatoes.

“Mickey wait wait wait!” Ian cried, but could barely get the words out through his sudden fit of laughter. “You’re gunna kill us!” Ian eyed the stairs that took them down to the lower decks as they approached, and felt his chest flutter with an equal amount of nerves and joy.

“If you get too heavy, I’ll just drop you,” Mickey huffed, and despite the weight Ian probably had on him, Mickey descended the stairs like a champ, holding tight to Ian’s thighs while Ian’s head flopped carelessly near his ass, and Ian could do nothing more than laugh and enjoy the view, glancing happily at the smiles and raised eyebrows they got from the crew members they passed as Mickey carried him all the way to their room, and straight into bed.

~

“Come on!” Mickey yelled, the grin on his face never leaving as he watched Ian hesitate near the edge, his beautiful, porcelain toes gripping the rock as if they somehow might save him should he slip.

“How the fuck did you make it look so easy!?” Ian called down, but beyond the nerves he heard in that sentence, Mickey could also see the determination that had made him fall in love with Ian Milkovich in the first place, and he knew Ian was going to follow through, one way or another.

“Just jump!” Mickey raised a hand, slicking his soaking hair back as he tread water, squinting a little in the sunlight that beat down on them from above. “I’ll kiss you when you get down here!” Mickey added, without a hint of hesitation – he had given up the idea of keeping his hard edge on this trip a long time ago.

“Promise?”

“I promise!”

“Is that a Milkovich promise?”

Mickey laughed.

“Is there any other kind?”

With that, Ian disappeared suddenly, and Mickey felt his smile fade for a just moment until Ian reappeared at the edge and sailed off with a running start, his massive body going pin-straight as he landed a few feet away, the splash soaking Mickey completely and causing his hair to fall back in his face.

“Jeesus,” he spat, not at all annoyed, and couldn’t help the smile that split his face in two as Ian came up for air beside him then, his head tilting as he broke the surface, allowing his hair to slick back into a dark red curtain. “Graceful,” he added, reaching a hand out automatically in the water and wrapping it around Ian’s waist, tugging him closer. “I believe I made a promise...”

“I believe you did.” Ian draped his arms carefully over Mickey’s shoulders, easing his weight off just enough that they could both still stay afloat as Mickey pressed a cold kiss to his mouth, the salt water on their lips reminding him of all the times he had tasted salt on their tongues that wasn’t from the sea.

“Wanna go again?” Mickey asked after a moment, pulling away as they drifted into the shadow of the cliff, making the reflections off the water dance more brightly across their skin, and it wasn’t lost on Mickey how the blue-green colour of the Mediterranean here matched Ian’s eyes perfectly.

“No,” Ian sighed, a sly grin appearing amongst his darkening freckles. “I kinda wanna see the caves.”

“You mean you wanna _make out_ in the caves…” Mickey bit back a smile as Ian kissed him once more, slow and gentle, as if trying to get him to shut up.

“Not everything has to be sexual, Mickey…”

“Oh?” Mickey pecked his lips. “Is that so?” Then his neck. “Well then…” Mickey tore himself free with a smirk and began swimming back towards Philippe and the boat, leaving Ian to look on in enthralled annoyance. “I’ll be sure to keep the rest of the vacation strictly PG then so you can properly enjoy the sights!”

“You couldn’t keep your hands off me if you tried!” Ian called after him, almost choking on a mouthful of water as he attempted a gold-medal winning breaststroke to catch up, grabbing onto Mickey’s foot when he finally did and dragging him back towards him with a huff, which only made Mickey smile more than he already was.

~

Laying on his back, Ian realized absently that he _was_ lighter in the saltwater – his body hovering closer to the surface than it did back home – and something about the simplicity of that amazed him as he glanced at the white rock ceiling above, the gentle lull of the water causing him to drift around lazily, Mickey’s fingers intertwined with his own as he did the same beside him.

There were markings on the roof of the cave, and even if they weren’t that old, they still made Ian wonder suddenly just how much time had passed between when they were made and now – made him wonder just how much time had passed between the moment a person had first stepped into that space and the moment Ian and Mickey had swam into its shadows.

Something about those thoughts made Ian’s chest tighten suddenly, and he took a deep breath to steady himself as an abrupt burst of unwelcome thoughts raced through his mind – the product, he knew, of a vastly different time-zone and a shifted med schedule. Sometimes, out of the blue, he’d get that way – some errant memory or thought making him reflective, and a lot of the time, sadness followed.

“You ever think about how many people have sat here over thousands of years and done this exact same thing?” Ian queried then, and swallowed, trying not to wander down a dark path he wouldn’t like.

Mickey turned his head a little towards him in the water as they drifted through the cave, the sunlight bouncing off the walls around them, creating a light show that was just as beautiful and intense as the strobes had been at the club in Mykonos.

“I wasn’t thinking about it until just now.” Mickey’s voice was quiet, considering. “This place is old.”

“I know,” Ian agreed, tightening his grip on Mickey’s hand, causing Mickey to squeeze it back in return. “It kinda makes me sad a little bit.”

A promise was a promise, and Ian was a Milkovich – his vow to never shut Mickey out was still holding strong.

“What?” Mickey’s brows pulled together in worry at Ian’s tone, and he shifted himself at once, kneeling on the rock-bed beneath them so he could pull Ian down onto his lap in the waist-high water.

Without thinking about it, Ian wrapped his long, freckled legs around Mickey’s hips, allowing himself to be held – cradled – which was so rare for them; usually, it was the other way around, and that’s just the way it always had been.

Mickey eyed him, his head coming forward so their noses pressed together as his baby blues searched Ian’s face.

“Whatta you mean it makes you sad?” Mickey lifted a wet hand, sliding it up along Ian’s jaw and through his hair, slicking it back off his forehead.

“I just mean thinking about time and stuff, and all the people who have come before us, and all the people who’ll come after…” Ian trailed off, trying not to focus on the tightness growing in his chest as his anxiety rose a little bit.

It wouldn’t last, but for the moment, it was there.

“Hey,” Mickey whispered, so softly that Ian had no doubt in that moment that Mickey knew exactly what was happening inside his head. “We’re here, now, and that’s enough.”

“But we won’t always be,” Ian confessed, and he didn’t just mean here in Greece – he meant all of it, the sudden thought of one day growing old making his heart ache in a way that was physically paining him.

“We _will_ ,” Mickey said then, loudly, his voice so sure in the tiny space that Ian lifted his gaze and met his husband’s, that anxiety wavering at his certainty.

“Whatta you mean?”

“We _will_ always be here, Ian.” Mickey leaned in, thumbing the scar behind Ian’s ear as he pressed another kiss to his lips, so brief and fleeting that it only pained Ian more. “That’s the thing I learned about life, growing up the way I did,” Mickey continued, setting his forehead against Ian’s in the dancing light that gave life to the shadows around them. “Everything we do leaves a mark – however big, however small. I mean, just look at us, for fuck’s sake!” Mickey laughed – a quiet, brittle thing – and Ian felt his chest growing warm at the sound of it.

“What about us?”

“ _What about us!?_ ” Mickey scoffed, his smile only growing. “You said it yourself in your vows, Ian: every step we’ve taken, every choice we’ve made, brought us together, like fate or some shit; and in turn, every single thing we do will make an impact, somehow, ensuring that no matter how much time passes, the fact that we were here, together, will always just…be.”

“Be what?”

Mickey shrugged, like it was all too great for him to really comprehend.

“I dunno, man. Just…be. Be fact, be known, be truth, be whatever. Time can’t change what’s real.”

“How can you be sure, though?” Ian asked, his arms tightening instinctively around Mickey’s neck, like Mickey’s positivity could maybe leak out of his pores somehow and seep into Ian.

“Like this.” Mickey reached a hand out then and set in on top of the water, slapping it with enough force that it sent ripples out over the surface. “See? One little action can change everything.”

Ian watched the way the tiny waves splashed against the rock wall behind them when they reached it, and he watched the way the sudden shift made the light dance more swiftly around them – the entire atmosphere changing instantly from one little movement.

Maybe, Ian thought, his husband was right; and he felt his sadness slip back into the sea.

“You think our waves will be big enough to make a difference?” Ian queried finally, fingering the wet strands of hair at the nape of Mickey’s neck, causing Mickey to close his eyes in pleasure before blindly leaning in to lay his forehead against Ian’s chest as they breathed together.

“I think our waves are big enough to take down empires.”

~

That night, Mickey rubbed his hand over and around the small of Ian’s back as they faced each other between the sheets, the lights of Milos twinkling in through their open balcony door along with that sea breeze that was becoming so familiar Mickey thought he should start calling it by name.

It hadn’t escaped Mickey’s notice how once in a blue moon, Ian would become reflective – lost in an errant thought – like he had earlier in the day. For a long time, Mickey honestly hadn’t known if it was a part of his disorder, or if it was just Ian himself; as the months had passed though, he had begun leaning a little towards the latter, because the moments were always fleeting, and never stayed put long enough to send Ian into a place he didn’t want to go.

Maybe, Mickey thought, Ian was just a person who needed to know things in a moment – big things that were sometimes far too grand for any single person to really comprehend.

If anyone were to be that way, it would be Ian.

“I love you,” Ian whispered suddenly, his chest still heaving from the orgasm that had ripped through his body as he tore Mickey away from his wonderings.

There was a tightening in Mickey’s throat at that, and he cleared it away to keep it at bay.

“I know.” Mickey shuffled forward, not making a move to kiss his husband, just needing to be closer. “I love you, too.”

~

Photographs didn’t do Santorini justice. Ian had seen the place in photographs and on travel commercials a thousand times, but stepping onto the dock two days later and glancing up at the sprawling town that sat on the cliffs like they had been carved from the rocks themselves made him lose his breath a little.

It was one of the most beautiful things Ian had ever seen, and a part of him wanted to stay there on that dock forever, without even needing to see the rest of the place.

“So where you taking me, hmm?” Mickey asked then, but Ian couldn’t look at him – he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the view, where the white buildings glowed in the afternoon sunlight like beacons.

“It’s a surprise!” Ian reached a hand out blindly to slap at Mickey beside him. “Quit asking!”

“Alright, alright.”

“Mr. Milkovich?” a voice said suddenly, and Ian finally turned in the bustling crowd, recognizing Carlos’s voice from his private phone call earlier in the day.

“Yea?” Mickey answered out of habit, his eyebrows furrowing at the sudden appearance of a stranger that seemed to know him in the middle of a foreign city. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Mickey!” Ian hissed, trying not to laugh at his fucking abrasiveness. “He means _me_!” Ian shoved his husband aside and gave him the finger, knowing just how much Mickey loved when people called him _Mr. Milkovich_.

Mickey flipped him the bird in return, but smirked a little as that narrowed, curious gaze contorted his features once more, his suspicions only growing.

Ian had been planning this surprise for a while.

Strolling up to Carlos, Ian leaned his head down, ensuring Mickey wasn’t within earshot as he turned his back to him.

“Is it all set up?” he inquired, the excitement in his chest growing – an excitement that was all for Mickey, and not at all for himself.

“Yes sir! I just have to get you guys back in the boat and take you around the island to New Harbor.”

“Perfect!” Ian turned back around, spying his husband in a throng of tourists that stepped off a ferry, looking completely annoyed as they jostled him about. “Yo, Mick!” he yelled, causing his husband to turn around and shoot him a look over his sunglasses.

“What?”

“Come on!”

~

Mickey almost tripped over a fuckin’ rock as Ian guided him forward, his massive, gangly hands covering his eyes as if it were Christmas morning, which wasn’t even until next week.

“What the fuck are you doing, Ian?” Mickey asked, managing to make his tone so unimpressed that it actually hid the tiny hint of excitement that was fluttering inside him.

“I’m about to make your entire honeymoon.”

_What a stupid comment_ , Mickey thought suddenly, and wanted nothing more than to tell Ian that he had already done that, simply by being with him; but he refrained, not knowing just how many people stood around them.

“If any of our family or friends or whatever are waiting when I open my eyes, I’ll divorce you,” he ventured instead, chewing his lips as he bit back a smile.

Ian snorted, and Mickey just knew he was rolling his eyes as he clumsily shuffled him forward.

“Firstly, fuck face, you think I would ruin our time away by inviting our fuckin’ families? I mean yea, mine could actually afford it now thanks to the half-million I divvied up between them, but I’d really rather not have to deal with the Gallagher’s…” Ian trailed off, and Mickey’s smile finally escaped as he listened to his husband’s rambling.

“Is that all?”

“No.”

“Of course not.”

“Secondly, do you think I don’t know you at all?” Ian actually sounded a bit annoyed when he said this, which only made Mickey smile wider.

“Of course I don’t think that, I…” suddenly Ian’s hands were off his face, and Mickey squinted against the sun, his mouth going a little slack as the heartbeat within his chest kicked instantly into overdrive.

Mickey had never once in the entire time they’d been together thought that Ian didn’t know him, but if he _had_ ever thought it, that thought would be disappearing right about now in a cloud of smoke.

A black Lamborghini Aventador Roadster was shining immaculately in the sun in front of him; the top was down, showing the clean, cream-white leather interior, and Mickey was sure it perfectly matched the jizz that just exploded into his shorts.

“Hoooly fuck,” he exhaled, kneeling down a little to admire the paint job, the curvature, the thickness, how low it was to the ground; he knew it wasn’t a gift per se – there was no way Ian could afford this car; but Mickey knew he could definitely rent it.

“You like?” Ian asked giddily, his voice so expectant that Mickey couldn’t help but turn towards him, stride over, wrap an arm around his neck, and force him down into a kiss that he knew conveyed his gratitude without having to say the words.

Fuck all the spectators.

“I _love_ ,” Mickey corrected, grinning stupidly against his will before glancing back at the car.

“Good! We have it for the rest of the day.”

Mickey felt his nerves tingle at that – felt his hands automatically tense as he imagined the wheel beneath them – and as if he could actually hear the road calling his fucking name then, Mickey glanced upwards, eyeing the massive cliff and the never-ending switchback road that would take them all the way to the top and into Santorini.

“Fuuuck me.” The sight made Mickey fucking hard, and before he even knew what he was doing, he was pointing a stern finger directly at Ian. “You! Get the fuck in,” he commanded, and saw the way Ian’s eyes narrowed with hunger before he jogged to the passenger seat like his life depended on it.

“Key fob is in there,” Carlos interrupted, watching Mickey intently like he was suddenly extremely wary of him, and really worried about his Lambo…

 _You should be_ , Mickey thought absently, the words making him smile before he hopped directly over the car door and fell into the driver’s seat like it was made for him, the leather so warm and soft against his ass that it almost felt as good as Ian.

“You got insurance on this thing?” Mickey spat back, raising an eyebrow at Carlos, and the way the man’s face fell a little made Mickey’s own face split in two like an absolute asshole.

“Is it weird that I’m really fuckin’ hard right now?” Ian said randomly, causing Mickey’s thighs to tingle as he glanced at his husband, sliding his left hand up onto the wheel rather seductively.

“No, because I think I already blew my fuckin’ load.”

The smile that spread across Ian’s face then was immaculate, and without another word, Mickey hit the push start, the car roaring abruptly to life and sending a vibration through his bones that made him hot.

Risking one last glance in Ian’s direction, Mickey locked eyes with his husband, and he didn’t think he’d ever understand why such fickle things like cars, a baseball cap, or a photograph, could send them hurtling all the way over the edge together.

~

When Ian had admitted he was a little hard, he was sure Mickey just assumed he was hard from the idea of being in the passenger seat of a fucking racecar in Greece; but really, Ian was hard for the same reason he always got hard when he was in a car with Mickey: because of how Mickey looked behind the wheel, his face going so serious and tense that it made his eyes narrow, the blue within them becoming darker – heated.

One day, Ian was going to fuck Mickey in the driver’s seat of a sports car…

Fuck, maybe this one…

It was a convertible after all, which meant Mickey could bounce on Ian’s dick as he pushed him further down into the driver’s seat with every roll of the hips…

_Fuuuuuuuuccckkkk._

“I’m fucking you in this later,” Ian admitted then, without preamble, and the car actually stuttered as Mickey accidentally let go of the accelerator for a split second as they peeled around the first corner of the switchback.

Mickey’s eyes never once left the road, but Ian saw the way they went hazy and lucid as a smirk pulled up the corner of his mouth – a mouth Ian was trying desperately not to look at.

“Won’t hear me complainin’, man…”

With a simple nod of agreement, Ian finally turned away, the spark of arousal igniting his body into flames as he imagined just how many different positions he could flip Mickey through in this tiny space…

Surprisingly, he came up with quite a few as they tore up the cliff, the sun beating down on them from above, the wind from the sea and the speed making their hair whip carelessly around their faces.

Ian was sure he had never felt more alive than he did when they took those switchback corners so fast that they earned honks and furious gazes from other drivers – honks and gazes that Mickey just gave the finger to, that smirk on his face only growing the higher they climbed.

Halfway up, Ian couldn’t take his eyes off the water below that stretched out to the horizon, the steep, rocky cliffs between their car and the shore making his stomach twist a little; but that twist only made adrenaline kick its way out into his nerves, making his heartbeat quicken and his soul come alive.

Despite their domestic life, they both still lived for this hectic shit every now and then, and Ian knew it.

Reaching out, Ian wrapped his fingers through Mickey’s like they were back at home in the Audi; he could feel the sweat on Mickey’s palm from his own adrenaline – from the unwavering control he had over everything – and Ian wondered absently just how many ways their sweat could mingle together if they wanted it to...

“Pass me my sunglasses, babe?” Mickey yelled suddenly, his voice loud over the rushing wind, but the soft sweetness of it made Ian’s hairs rise, mostly because Mickey’s sunglasses were hanging off the collar of his own shirt beneath his stubbled chin; it was like he didn’t want to take his hand from the wheel – didn’t want to take his hand from Ian’s.

He was too far gone.

“Babe?” Ian snickered at the term of affection, raising an eyebrow as he leaned over, unhooking Mickey’s sunglasses with his free hand before sliding them up over his eyes. That sudden nineteen-forties, debonair air returned as soon as they were in place, which only made Ian lean forward and suck a kiss to the space beneath his ear, and he felt rather than heard the vibration of Mickey’s little moan of pleasure.

When they finally reached the summit of the island and the town came into view on the other side, Ian almost lost his breath for the second time that day. It was a tumbling hill of pastel homes and blue-domed rooftops, with crisp, white walls that sparkled in the sunlight while the shore below burned aquamarine in the afternoon.

From the docks, the city had looked daunting and beautiful; now – as they slowed their way onto the cobbled streets at the highest point – it looked welcoming and dream-like, the rocky outcroppings that framed the Mediterranean jewel like walls that kept a hidden secret.

“Fuck,” Ian sighed, his own eyes burning in the sun, causing Mickey’s fingers to simply tighten in his own.

~

They had spent the entire summer together in Chicago – in the deep, unending humidity – but Mickey had never seen Ian so tan – had never seen so many freckles dot their way across his porcelain skin; it was as if the distant sun had awakened those parts of Ian, bringing the physical elements that Mickey loved most forward and making him stand out more than he already did.

In the handful of days since their arrival, the sun had already managed to bleach Ian’s orange hair to a lighter shade, and the colour was so saturated as they sat on a patio in the heart of Santorini that Mickey was starting to genuinely believe Ian really _did_ belong to this place – his vibrant personality and the subtle pastel colours of him blending in perfectly, as if he had been carved from the island itself.

Mickey couldn’t help it; he reached out across the white-linen tabletop and grabbed Ian’s hand, lifting his own sunglasses up to rest on his head so he could appreciate the freckles that sat scattered below his wedding rings.

“You’re fucking beautiful,” he whispered, and maybe it was because their time in this place was slowly coming to an end, or maybe it was just because he needed Ian to know that; either way, he said it, and he’d never regret it.

Ian didn’t say anything, but Mickey saw the way his face softened as he stared back at him in the setting sun, as if the words were right there beneath his skin, he just didn’t have the heart to say them out loud and break the quiet.

As always however, the universe apparently had other plans, as Mickey’s phone vibrated suddenly in his pocket then, and he placed a kiss to Ian’s knuckles before letting go to pull it out.

“Colin,” he answered, not needing to feign annoyance as he leaned back in the warmth of the early evening, the breeze wafting the tang of sea salt and water into his nose.

“Mick. How’s Greece? You break the bed yet?”

Mickey rolled his eyes but smiled anyways, all the while Ian’s gaze still intent on his flushing face.

Fucking Milkoviches and their lack of formalities.

“Shut up.” Mickey pulled a cigarette out from his pack on the table and lipped it. “It’s great, though. Currently finishing dinner in Santorini.”

“Fuuuuck,” Colin whined, his voice going higher than Mickey was used to hearing. “I miss Santorini.”

“Yea I believe it.”

“How’s Ian?”

Mickey raised his eyes again, slowly drinking in the sight of his husband across the table.

“Really fuckin’ freckly,” he replied, causing said husband to finally smile and give him the finger. “Fuck he’s hot though…”

“Okay okay!” Colin snorted a bit before quickly changing the subject. “Just wanted to check in before my flight.”

“Where you goin’?” Mickey exhaled; smoke swirling around his face in the breeze.

“New York.”

“Tell that Irish dick I say hey.”

“And that I say _go fuck yourself_ ,” Ian added absently, making Mickey laugh in the sun.

“Yea, sure thing.” Colin inhaled – like he, too, was smoking – then hesitated a moment, which Mickey recognized immediately.

Colin never hesitated unless he had something to say that he didn’t really want to bring up.

“You need to tell me something?” Mickey asked, crushing his cigarette out in the ashtray on the table, Ian’s brows furrowing as he heard Mickey’s tone shift.

“Nah it can wait.”

“Colin.”

“Seriously, Mick, it isn’t important.”

A long, slow hiss of air escaped Mickey’s nose in annoyance.

“Jesus fuck, just spit it out or else you’ll fuck up the rest of my trip.” 

There was a beat of silence from the other end, allowing the distant, honking sounds of Chicago traffic to float down the line.

“Did you know Okulov had a brother?” Colin asked finally, and the question was so unexpected that the breath actually hitched in Mickey’s throat for a moment, his mind instantly racing as it went through a list of possible threats, of escape routes, of targets, of plans, of nearby weapons…

“Is he a threat?” Mickey asked at once, his chest tightening a bit as he glanced at Ian, whose face was slowly becoming more solemn as he listened.

“Fuck no!” Colin snorted, clearly amused, and the sound calmed Mickey’s nerves a bit. “Just some Russian living on a farm somewhere outside of Moscow; I’ve been keeping an eye on him but, trust me, he won’t be a problem.”

Mickey rolled his eyes so hard they nearly stayed in the back of his skull.

“Well fuckin’ lead with that next time, you fuckin’ douchebag.”

Colin laughed loudly.

“Sorry, I just knew it would work you up and get you overly paranoid.”

Mickey thought he had a right to get worked up and become overly paranoid after everything that had happened.

“Yea well, you were right.”

“Jesus Mick, calm down. It’s all good here on the western front kid, so just enjoy your trip and I’ll see you for Christmas in a few days.”

“Yea yea, fine.”

“Bye.”

Mickey huffed.

“Bye.”

Leaning forward on the table, Ian didn’t waste any time.

“What the fuck was that about?” he asked, green eyes stern and searching.

Mickey took a sip of his water, letting it quell the sudden dryness in his throat before eyeing his husband carefully; this was a touchy subject, but he and Ian had promised to give it to each other straight a long time ago.

“Colin found out Okulov had a brother, but it’s fine, he’s not in the business, he isn’t a threat.”

The mention of that name after so long set Ian’s teeth on edge – Mickey could tell by the way his jaw tightened – so he reached out absently, fingering those freckles once more for reassurance before promptly changing the subject.

“Hey, you still wanna fuck me in that car?” Mickey queried, knowing exactly what would lift his husband’s spirits, and most definitely his own.

Ian’s eyes widened as he glanced absently around the entirety of the city then, the sun beginning to disappear beyond the horizon.

“Where the fuck would we even manage that in this fuckin’ place? It’s so open…”

“Don’t worry,” Mickey shrugged, a smile pulling up his lips as he stood. “I did some Googling.”

~

Shifting himself into the driver’s seat, Ian watched Mickey unhook the latch on the gate that took them up to the viewpoint – the viewpoint that was technically closed after sunset but, well, what the fuck did the Milkoviches care about rules?

The way the car rumbled under his hands as he gassed it through made Ian eager to get Mickey under his hands instead, a different sort of hardened power he could take control of and spend time appreciating.

“Close it!” he called back, and Mickey flipped him the bird in the red glow of the tail-lights as he re-closed the gate and locked it before climbing into the passenger seat.

“Alright, go go go,” Mickey huffed, motioning up the dirt road before them. “I don’t wanna be caught fuckin’ on a cliff top in Greece.”

“I kinda do.” Ian eyed him, revving the engine teasingly before tearing up the road, dirt flying up behind them creating a glowing cloud in the night.

At the top, Ian parked in the stone lot, facing the car out towards the open water before turning the engine off and killing the lights, leaving them in the glow of the moon over the Mediterranean and the twinkle of the city below.

Glancing skywards from the driver’s seat, Ian took in the stars – a blanket of them that spread so far to each horizon that if Ian angled his head just right, he lost sight of the earth in his peripherals completely and could imagine himself floating in space…

Mickey’s hands were on his cock then without warning, and Ian’s gaze shifted at once to the dark head that leaned down over him in the shadows. Reaching out automatically, Ian trailed his fingers through Mickey’s hair as he undid Ian’s zipper and took his dick out, the moon making it look pale and fragile as it tingled to life in his hardened hands.

“Fuck,” Mickey whispered, his breath hot against Ian’s tip, making his blood rush as Mickey squeezed around him, and Ian could feel the cool metal of his rings on his skin. “I’ll never get over how big you are…”

“I’ve thought of so many ways to fuck you in here,” Ian moaned, his head falling back as Mickey slipped his cock into his mouth, making his freckled grip tighten in his hair, and Ian tried to count the shooting stars to keep himself from blowing too soon.

“Yea? So how we gunna start?” Mickey asked after a moment – once Ian was fully hard and throbbing – the sound of wet, breaking suction filling the silence as he pulled free, and Ian looked up in time to see the precum and spit shine in the moonlight on his chin before he wiped it away.

“Like this,” Ian sighed, leaning over to grasp the back of Mickey’s neck and pull him in for a kiss, the salty taste of himself on Mickey’s tongue in his mouth making the heat in his chest flush up his face.

“Mmm, not bad,” Mickey mumbled – a smile against his mouth – and Ian could only smile in return. “Then what?”

“Then this.” Ian reached down, palming Mickey’s hard-on through the front of his shorts, feeling the warmth radiate through the fabric, making Ian sweat in anticipation.

Not even bothering with the zipper, Ian just shoved his hand forcefully down through the top – under the belt – his mouth finding Mickey’s once more as they breathed hot into each other’s lungs.

Mickey’s teeth bit hard into Ian’s lip when Ian found his cock and gripped it, pulling it out into the night.

“Shit,” Mickey hissed, his head pulling back so he could see himself in Ian’s hand – could see that his own dick was just as pale as Ian’s in the dim, blue light.

“Hey baby…” Ian raised an errant eyebrow at the girth in his hand. “I missed you.”

Mickey snorted at the interaction, but that snort turned into a groan then as Ian leaned forward in his seat and promptly slipped Mickey down his throat, swallowing him whole.

The angle allowed Ian to feel Mickey’s stomach against his cheek as the muscles tightened and shifted – as they trembled at the sensation of Ian’s mouth. The whole time, the side of Ian’s head scratched beautifully against the soft fabric of Mickey’s shirt as he bobbed up and down, tasting Mickey’s skin like it was nourishment.

But as always, Ian needed more.

“Get naked,” he demanded, his breath coming fast as he pulled back, turning in his seat a little to help Mickey lift his button-down off over his head, and if Ian thought their dicks were pale, well, Mickey’s entire torso was a different story. “Fuck you look so good, baby.”

Pushing himself up a little, Mickey removed his shorts and boxers entirely, his cock bobbing at the action, making Ian swallow with just how hard and shiny it was, a small bead of precum sitting neatly in the tip as it sparkled in the moonlight like a fucking diamond.

“Better?” Mickey eyed Ian hungrily in the soft breeze, his thumb dragging through that precum as he grabbed hold of himself, watching Ian as if he were seeking approval…

Most of the time, Ian took control – it’s just how it was; but sometimes, Mickey allowed him to take more control than usual: asking, begging, waiting for instruction in their own unlabeled form of dominant/submissive.

It turned Ian on immensely.

“No,” Ian said finally, lifting his own ass so he could shove his shorts off, too, before throwing his t-shirt onto the floor. “Take your shoes off.”

Mickey just raised a curious eyebrow, a ridiculously horny smirk pulling up the corners of his mouth before he complied, and as always, Ian just watched, taking his own cock in his hand and stroking his precum and Mickey’s spit down over himself, unable to take his eyes off the way Mickey’s muscles shifted in the darkness.

“What now?” Mickey asked, task completed, and Ian felt his mouth drop open – felt his cock get harder – when he realized absently that Mickey was in the mood to do whatever Ian wanted.

“Get up on the seats,” Ian commanded, opening the driver’s side door so he could step out of the way; but fuck, he couldn’t take his eyes off his porn star.

“Like, stand on them?” Mickey raised another eyebrow, but Ian saw his cock twitch at the idea forming in his head.

“Yes. Put a foot on each seat and lean over the back.”

The car was only a two-seater, thank fuck, because Ian was going to use every goddamn angle to his advantage.

Mickey stood at once, stepping up onto the passenger seat before he shifted his right leg over to the driver’s, his legs straddling the centre console.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Ian panted, eyeing Mickey’s pale, perfect ass in the moonlight as he bent forward and braced himself on the back of the car.

“This good, baby?” Mickey breathed heavily, way too far gone to sound anything close to level-headed as he took his own dick in his hand then and thrust himself forward, having the audacity to fuck his own fist right in front of Ian.

“Fuckin’ perfect.” Ian kicked his shoes off on the ground before stepping back into the car, lifting himself up so he stood on the seats behind Mickey, their socked feet pressing together on the soft leather.

Grabbing onto Mickey’s ass, Ian squeezed, pulling his cheeks apart carefully – gently – listening to the whines that escaped Mickey’s chest and loving the way his ass pressed back against his cock like he was way too impatient and just needed Ian inside him to go on living.

“You want my cock?” Ian sighed, falling forward to drape himself over Mickey’s back, his skin damp against Ian’s chest as he thrust his dick purposefully between Mickey’s cheeks, teasing.

“Yes, fuck.”

“Tell me.” Ian bit into the flesh of Mickey’s neck, the words hot on his chin. “Tell me you want my cock.”

“Please,” Mickey begged, letting go of his dick so he could reach his arm around and grip Ian’s thigh, pull him closer. “I want your cock.”

The way he said it made Ian leak precum all over Mickey’s ass, so he pushed himself to standing at once, spitting directly down onto Mickey’s hole before unceremoniously shoving in a finger.

“Oh fuck, yea,” Mickey moaned, his back arching and his face falling against the metal at the sudden intrusion. “Fuck me with your fingers.”

_Jesus Christ._

Slipping his index in and out with the perfect rhythm, Ian changed his pressure, hooking it around so he could hit Mickey’s prostate perfectly, causing Mickey’s breath to come harder – fogging the paint – and Ian couldn’t’ tear his eyes away from his husband’s beautiful goddamn face.

“Fuck you’re so tight.”

Sometimes they were vocal, sometimes they weren’t; sometimes they made love, sometimes they fucked; but sometimes, all those things converged into one, creating a sexual fuck-fest that was built on so much raw need and all-consuming love that Ian was sure they were going to turn into sparks at some point and just burn off into nothing.

Ian knew which one this was going to be, and instinctively he pressed in another finger, feeling the way Mickey constricted around him, his muscles working overtime as Ian’s hairs rose in the silence around them, the soft melody of music drifting over the cliffs from the city mingling with the wet sound of Ian’s fingers deep inside Mickey’s warmth.

“I want your cock,” Mickey repeated suddenly – his tone quieter, hungry – and his hand lifted absently once more, slapping at Ian’s thighs as he trembled under Ian’s shaking palms.

Somehow, Ian managed to desperately hang on to his cool composure.

“I want you to beg me.”

“Fuuck, please,” Mickey whimpered, just as Ian squeezed in a third, ruthlessly edging him closer, closer.

“Please what?” Ian could feel his cock throbbing with every word he said, with every noise Mickey made, with every movement between them…

“Please fuck me, Ian!”

Ian removed his fingers at once, lifting that same hand so he could spit into it, rub it down over his aching veins, and press his cock hard into Mickey’s loosened ass in a single thrust.

Loose or not from prep, Ian didn’t think anybody was tighter than Mickey Milkovich, and the sudden impact of his hips on his ass – the sudden fullness – made Mickey yell something incoherent, his voice echoing out over the sea.

All of it made a groan escape Ian’s chest, and if it weren’t for the control he was trying really fucking hard to exert, he probably would have came on that single thrust; instead, he held himself in place for a minute, rubbing his hands over the plains of Mickey’s back – feeling him, loving him – before steadying himself, leaning his weight down onto Mickey’s ribcage as he pulsed forward.

“Gunna fuck you so good, Mick,” he panted, his eyes closing as he focused on Mickey’s grip around his cock, the slow grind making his nerves shoot jolts of pleasure into every cell that he had. “You’re not gunna be able to walk, I fuckin’ swear.”

Mickey’s body trembled at that, his ass pushing back with every thrust, his hand working between himself and the seats so he could jerk his dick as Ian fucked him slow.

“Harder, please.” Mickey was full on whimpering now – shaking – and Ian fucking loved it.

“No.” Ian slipped himself out, leaning forward to wrap his arm under Mickey’s chest and stand him up against his body, the two of them hovering on the seats of a fucking Lamborghini above the sea like they owned the fucking world, their combined weight making the leather give way slightly under their feet, but fuck it – fuck this car, and fuck everything else.

Mickey leaned his head back, his arm coming up to wrap around Ian’s head as he pulled him forward, their mouths meeting at the weird angle, causing Ian to grind his cock into Mickey’s ass, pressed so hard against his hips he could feel the downy hairs of Mickey’s cheeks on his sensitive head.

Sliding his hands forward, Ian wrapped them around Mickey’s waist, letting his still-wet fingers trail up over his stomach to his nipples, pinching them absently as Mickey whined into his mouth, and the way Mickey’s body settled into his arms – the way he let go completely – made both their skin ripple to life.

Ian could feel it on their tongues, and he could feel it in the air – a sudden shift that let him know everything else was about to disappear, and all that would be left was their skin and their beating hearts.

“Come here,” Ian breathed, disentangling his tongue to force Mickey to turn in his arms, and as soon as they were chest-to-chest, Ian kissed him hard once more, lifting him gently so he could set him up on the roof behind the seats.

“New position?” Mickey panted against his lips, tone curious – teasing – but desperate.

“Mhmm.” Ian stood, pushing Mickey’s chest until he was laying back against the metal, his legs dangling down into the seats, his cock flush and dripping against his stomach.

The sight made Ian’s own cock drip a string of precum down onto the centre console, and it literally did nothing but thrill him even more.

Hooking Mickey’s legs up over his own head, Ian fell to his knees – one in each seat – and straddled that centre console, absently aware of the coolness of it somewhere against his skin as he pushed those pale, thick thighs skywards, and didn’t even hesitate before sticking his tongue out, and putting it right where he wanted to.

~

If taking his eyes away from Ian was an option, Mickey didn’t know about it; as soon as Ian’s tongue was inside him, Mickey raised himself up onto his elbows, his mouth falling open as his husband darted in and out of his hole, making his nipples and his cock harden even further.

“Oh fuck, Ian, shit!” Mickey’s words were coming out without his mind really having a say in it as he watched Ian work between his thighs, Mickey’s own body curling in on itself as Ian held his legs up to the fucking sky.

“You like that?” Ian asked, breath cool against the wetness of Mickey’s asshole, causing goose bumps to ripple their way over his skin in the starlight.

Never in a million years did Mickey ever think he would find someone who would take care of him like he had secretly always wanted; now, here he was, a red-haired fucking sex-God or something glowing so white between his legs in the moonlight that he looked like he actually fit the part – like he had descended from Heaven or wherever the fuck Gods came from, just to give Mickey everything he ever wanted.

“Fuck yes, yes.” Mickey pinched at his own nipples as his balls drew up, his head falling back at the sensation as a billion fucking stars burned overhead, but Mickey wasn’t sure if they were actually real, or just from the pleasure coursing through his soul.

They stayed like that for what seemed like hours, but was probably only mere minutes; Mickey’s eyes opening, closing, opening, closing, as Ian worked his mouth around him – inside him; as Ian bit his skin; absently dragged his fist up and down Mickey’s cock to keep him hard and waiting before letting go; his fingers crooking inside every now and then, playing with his prostate, making Mickey want it more than he had ever wanted anything before; and by the time Ian finally pulled away, there was a pool of precum on Mickey’s belly that was so big he could see the reflection of light in it.

“Gunna pound you so fuckin’ hard,” Ian panted, standing up suddenly before hooking his arms around Mickey’s legs, and Mickey shot his hands out at once, grabbing onto the headrests on either side of his thighs and hanging on for dear life.

“Fuckin’ give it to me, Ian…”

Ian eye’s were so dark in the shadows, but that didn’t stop Mickey from seeing the raw fucking need within them as he stared down at him from above, his hair hanging loose and limp on his forehead as his lips parted to breathe harshly in the quiet.

“How hard you want it, baby?” Ian queried, grabbing hold of his cock and shoving the head teasingly into Mickey’s soaking ass, his green eyes darting down to watch while his mouth fell so far open Mickey could see his teeth. “Tell me how hard you want it.”

“So fucking hard.” Mickey grabbed onto his dick and squeezed, feeling it pulse with pleasure. “I want it so fucking hard.”

“Good.” Ian thrust forward, his cock going so deep so fast that Mickey felt the moan it pushed out of his throat in his bones, and his eyes watered as they closed to the pressure and the burn.

“Oh Jesus fuuucking Christ.”

Ian began slamming into him, the entire car rocking back and forth with every impact – every impact that was dragging Ian’s head ruthlessly over Mickey’s sweet spot, causing Mickey’s teeth to dig hard into his lower lip – causing his hand to work faster, faster over himself.

“Stop,” Ian said suddenly, his hand shooting out to grab Mickey’s wrist and pull Mickey’s hand away from his throbbing cock.

Mickey’s eyes opened at once, focusing on Ian’s intense gaze above him as Ian leaned forward suddenly, resting his elbows on Mickey’s chest so he could intertwine his fingers behind Mickey’s neck and hold their faces together as he drilled into him over and over again, the slow burn turning into a pleasurable wave that crashed, crashed, crashed against Mickey’s shore.

_HolyfuckingJesusfuckingChrist…_

Looking directly into Ian’s eyes as he held his head up was just as hot to Mickey as the feel of his dick inside his ass was.

“You’re gunna make me cum,” Mickey whined, his hands coming up to wrap around Ian’s wrists at the side of his face, and Mickey didn’t think he’d cum hands-free since they had fucked in the van.

“Soon.” Ian closed the gap and kissed him, slowing his thrusts suddenly, making Mickey whine desperately into his mouth; he was so fucking close, he could feel it sparking in his stomach, in his balls, in his pelvis…

“Fuck Ian, please.” Mickey wanted to beg, he fucking loved it – he loved feeling like this, and he loved making Ian feel like this. “Please make me cum.”

“Ride me,” Ian spat, lifting them both at once, somehow taking all of Mickey’s weight in his arms as he stood, wobbling only a little on the uneven surface of the seats before he turned with Mickey’s legs wrapped around his waist, cock still firmly inside, before stepping to the side – into the driver’s seat – and sinking them both down slowly like he had done it a thousand times before.

“Oh Jeeesus fuuuu,” Mickey couldn’t even finish, the sudden change and his weight sinking so far down onto Ian’s cock that he felt that orgasm sink away slightly, the pain blossoming, blossoming into something more – something that was going to fucking kill him when it finally made an appearance.

“You’re so fucking sexy, Mickey, Jesus Christ.” Ian sat himself up a little, letting his mouth work its way along Mickey’s shoulders, his collar bone, his jaw, just letting them stay like that for a moment, keeping them far enough back from the edge that when they finally fell off, neither of them would survive the fallout.

“I wanted you from the very beginning,” Mickey admitted randomly, the words tumbling from his mouth, and he dipped his head at once, capturing Ian’s mouth with his own before grinding his hips down, finding immense pleasure at the whimper that escaped Ian’s chest at the movement, and maybe at the confession.

“Shit. _Shiiiit_.” Ian’s tongue was so eager that Mickey almost laughed, and he would have, if he weren’t so lost in a haze of sex and love and whatever the fuck the two of them together was. “I wanted you…” Ian panted, biting into Mickey’s lip. “I wanted you from the moment you lit that fucking cigarette in the back of the club despite the _no smoking_ signs.”

Mickey did smile at that, and he could no longer take it.

“Fuck me, Ian. Fuck me hard.” Mickey lifted himself up and held his body in place, clearly not needing any other words, as Ian wrapped his arms up under Mickey’s armpits at once in answering, gripping onto his shoulders from behind, and Mickey pressed their foreheads together, just to be closer.

Staring into each other’s eyes then in the front seat, Ian began thrusting up into him so fucking hard that Mickey had to wrap his own arms around Ian’s neck and hold himself there, his knees trembling and nearly buckling as Ian’s cock slammed into his prostate over and over, that orgasm slowly, slowly returning. Mickey wanted to grab his cock and jerk it until he felt fucking blisters starting to form, but he couldn’t – he couldn’t tear his eyes away from Ian’s; they were locked onto each other so desperately that there were a million things they were saying to each other, the only way they knew how to in the moment.

“Don’t touch yourself,” Ian moaned after a moment, his voice commanding as his elbows gripped harder into Mickey’s ribs, his breath hot on Mickey’s mouth as his eyes shimmered with moisture. “Don’t fucking touch yourself when I cum.”

Mickey could tell by the way Ian tensed and trembled that he was close; Mickey was close, too, but Ian was holding him back and he knew it – he also knew it was going to be worth it.

Out of instinct, Mickey began rocking back hard onto every thrust Ian was giving him, causing Ian’s face to shift and pull up into that familiar look – his forehead knitting together as he stared back into Mickey’s eyes.

“Cum in me, baby,” Mickey whimpered, encouraging his man, their lips so close that he felt Ian’s tickle his own. “Fucking fill me, Ian.”

“Mickey…” Ian’s eyes closed suddenly, his grip around Mickey tightening so much that Mickey swore he felt his ribs crack as Ian held on for dear life, fucking up into him five more times until a sound escaped his chest that was so fucking loud that it made Mickey’s head fall back, and he sunk down onto Ian’s cock in answering, rolling his hips as he milked Ian for all he was worth, Ian’s nails holding him in place as his balls emptied. “Oh Jeeesus fucking Christ, Mickey, fuck fuck fuuuuck.”

“Yes baby,” Mickey sighed, perfectly content as he rubbed his hand soothingly on the back of Ian’s neck, feeling Ian’s cum sliding its way out around his softening cock. “So wet.”

“Jesus, fuck, stand up,” Ian said at once – when he finally returned to earth – and grabbed onto Mickey’s face, forcing him to look back into his eyes. “I want you to fuck my mouth and cum down my throat.”

Everything inside of Mickey sparked instantly back into existence, and that orgasm was so fucking close that he almost blew just at Ian’s words.

Mickey didn’t need further instruction; he pushed himself to standing, wincing a little at the sudden absence of Ian’s dick as he tucked his feet back onto the seat on either side of Ian’s thighs.

“Fuck you look so good,” Mickey panted, staring down at Ian in the shadows, his pale mouth opening as he gazed back, and Mickey could still feel the cum dripping out of him, landing on Ian’s legs.

“Look at you.” Ian reached his hands out, sliding them up Mickey’s thick thighs before cupping his ass and pulling him closer. “You’re so fucking perfect.” Slipping his hand back around, Ian slid two fingers unexpectedly back inside of Mickey – finding his sweet spot at once – and Mickey bucked forward without actually meaning to, sliding his cock directly into Ian’s mouth as he bent forward, bracing his hands on the car behind his head.

“Oh fuck, Ian.” Mickey pushed himself in until he heard Ian gag, then pulled back, mentally calculating the allowable distance before setting to work, thrusting his hips over and over again, the wet sound of spit so goddamn loud and euphoric that Mickey could no longer hear anything else beyond it.

Every time Mickey hit the back of Ian’s throat, Ian curled his fingers, and the combined sensation made everything within him tense at once, the long-awaited attention to his cock making that orgasm that had been patiently waiting come bursting forward out of nowhere.

“Oh fuck I’m gunna cum!” Mickey yelled, standing himself up suddenly so he could watch Ian’s face as his balls reached his chin; but instead of pushing him away, Ian curled his fingers against his prostate so hard that he actually pulled Mickey forward – pulled him deeper into his mouth – and that was the end of the universe.

Mickey’s eyes squeezed shut, his legs gave out, his balls drew up, Ian’s finger pressed him into oblivion, and he felt Ian’s lips at the base of his dick as it fucking pumped him full of everything Mickey had.

After a moment, the only thing Mickey was absently aware of – besides his heaving chest and the greatest pleasure he had ever known – was Ian’s hands stroking his thighs and his soft voice somewhere in the distance.

“Fuck, you did so good baby. You did so good. I love you, more than anything...”

~

On their last day at sea, Ian found himself submerged in the clear, aquamarine waters on the coast of Crete, the slow, steady, undulating waves drifting him lazily under the surface. He was absently aware of Mickey somewhere above him, sunning himself on the white-blue rocks.

Despite the saltwater, Ian opened his eyes – gazing upwards towards the sunlight – and he could just make out Mickey’s face as it peered down at him through the surface, the light reflecting off his skin making his chiseled features dance.

Pushing himself up from the shallow bottom, Ian raised his hand, grabbing onto the rock and pulling himself up to meet Mickey head on, and he didn’t even hesitate to kiss him, their mouths coming together as soon as he broke free of the surface, causing Mickey to inhale in surprise as the salt of the sea leaked its way into their mouths.

At the taste, Ian was reminded for the thousandth time of their night in the car on Santorini – watching Mickey fall apart more completely than he ever had – and how the entire time – besides thinking that he was the luckiest man alive – Ian had rejoiced in knowing that _he_ had done that: _he_ made Mickey fall apart and open up all at once; _he_ made Mickey weak and vulnerable; _he_ made Mickey beg; _he_ made Mickey all the things that Mickey Milkovich never was before _them_.

“Hey,” Mickey smiled against his lips, the sunshine making his eyes so blue that if Ian wasn’t already breathing hard from holding his breath, he would be anyways from just the sight of them.

“Hey.”

“You ready to go back soon?”

Ian knew Mickey meant to the yacht, but he couldn’t help the way his chest ached a little at the sudden thought of going back home after all of… _this_.

“Ugh, it’s probably snowing at home,” Ian groaned, letting his arms rest on the rock as his body dangled in the sea.

“Probably.” Mickey pressed a kiss to Ian’s temple before nuzzling his face against his cheek, making Ian laugh.

Mickey had been growing his stubble – too lazy and too ‘ _on vacation’_ to be bothered with shaving every day – and Ian actually turned into a child when his skin came in contact with it, giggling like an idiot.

“You should keep that,” Ian admitted after a second, grabbing onto Mickey’s jaw with a smile and holding him still so he could thumb the prickly hairs. “You look fuckin’ sexy.”

“Oh yea?”

“Yea.” Ian pressed a kiss to his chin, and the feel of that hair on his lips drove him wild.

Mickey moaned a little, leaning his head into it before pulling away.

“Wanna just stay here?” he asked then, falling dramatically back onto the stones, and despite the sarcastic tone, Ian thought maybe there was a hint of actual longing in his voice.

“Yes.” Ian pulled himself up out of the water, lying onto his back beside Mickey, the heat of the rock ridiculously pleasing against his skin.

“Seriously?” Mickey raised his head and glanced at him, curious eyebrows pulling together in that way that made Ian snort and his insides flutter.

“Kinda, but…” Ian trailed off, closing his eyes to the Eastern sun. “I’d miss our home.”

“Just our home?” Mickey chuckled, turning himself onto his side so his chest was pressed against Ian’s shoulder. “Not anything else?”

“Honestly? No,” Ian confessed, not surprised at the truth of it. “I’d miss my family yea but, I’d miss our home the most.”

Mickey hummed, sniffing in the quiet hiss of rolling waves before flopping back onto the rocks.

“Well, two more days and we’ll be back.”

“Yup, for Christmas, too,” Ian grumbled, the idea of a Gallagher Christmas at their own home plaguing his mind suddenly; they were always so hectic. “Why did we invite everyone over to our place again?”

“Because we’re the only respectable ones in the whole family. Married, a home, a car…”

Ian nearly choked.

“Oh yea, we’re really the ones to look up to.”

“I got you a Hell of a present though,” Mickey admitted then, managing to change the subject so smoothly that Ian turned to look at him. Mickey’s eyes were closed, and he didn’t even spare his annoyed husband a glance.

“You better fucking not have!” Ian spat, feigning frustration, because the truth was, Ian had gotten him a Hell of a present, too.

“Shut up.”

“Mickey!”

“No.”

“Mickey.”

“Nope.”

“Look at me!”

“Nah.”

“Fuck…” Ian rolled over, a smile spreading across his face as he draped himself over Mickey’s body, causing Mickey’s façade to break as he burst out in a smile and a laugh that set Ian’s insides alight.

“Easy, Gallagher!” Mickey snorted, his hips moving so Ian didn’t accidentally knee him in the groin as he tried to pin him down, arms up over his head as his fingers grazed the surface of the water.

“It’s. Milkovich.” Ian bit the words off, trying to feign grumpiness, too, but it wasn’t working in the slightest. “What did you get me?”

“I’m not telling you!” Mickey’s eyes kept glancing down to Ian’s lips, but Ian wasn’t going to give in.

“Tell me.”

“No.”

“Mickey!”

“Not gunna happen.”

“Mikhailo.”

“That’s sexy but, nope.”

“Mick.”

“Nah.”

“Fucking Hell.”

“You’re just gunna have to wait!”

Waiting wasn’t really Ian’s strong suit, but he _did_ wait; he waited until they were seated in their living room back in South Side, his family mingling together around the Christmas tree they had put up before leaving for Greece, it’s warm, colourful lights reflecting off the cold, darkening glass of the front window as Christmas music echoed out from the TV.

“Looks fucking beautiful!” Fiona exclaimed, swiping her way through the photos on Ian’s phone from where she sat on the arm of the couch, the rest of their siblings huddled around her as they commented on the colour of the water, the colour of the cities, the colour of Ian’s hair in the sun, and Mickey’s perfectly tanned skin…

“Jesus Ian, surprised you didn’t catch fire,” Carl snorted, causing Debbie to slap him upside the back of the head.

The other pale, Gallagher ginger always had his back.

“We went through four bottles of sunscreen for Ian in ten days,” Mickey huffed then, coming into the living room with Mandy hot on his heels, a fresh bottle of beer in his hand and a glass of wine in hers.

“Oh fuck off, we did not!”

“Okay, two.”

Ian flipped him the bird, but set his hand on his husband’s thigh anyways when he sat down beside him, his other hand reaching absently out towards the table for the coffee he desperately needed to actually stay awake after the switch back to Chicago time.

When Ian brought the mug to his lips, he couldn’t help but smile at his writing on the side: _actual porcelain_. It was the mug he had given Mickey when they had had to separate, and now, it was their shared favourite.

“Where’s Lip?” Mandy asked absently, glancing around the living room at the rest of the Gallagher’s, who only shrugged at her like they were oblivious.

It wasn’t lost on Ian the way Tami eyed her warily, Fred bouncing in her lap as she sat on the edge of the fireplace, the flames licking their way up into the night behind her.

“He’s getting Mickey’s present,” Ian admitted triumphantly, watching the way the bottle of beer in Mickey’s hand stilled halfway to his mouth as his eyebrows shot up.

“What fuckin’ present?”

“Nice try, asshat.” Ian stood then, feeling the phone in his pocket vibrate. “Speak of the devil...”

**Lip: Outside.**

**** **Coming.**

“Cover his eyes, Mandy.” Ian shot an errant finger in his husband’s direction – and she did it without question, setting her wine down gingerly before smashing her hands so hard over Mickey’s head he winced.

“Jesus, fuckin’ priorities much!?” Mickey spat, which only made them laugh.

Scrambling to the door like an actual kid on Christmas, Ian swung it open, the cold, evening air biting at his skin as his heart climbed into his throat. Lip was standing in the softly falling snow, with ten pounds of Rottweiler tucked carefully into his arms, a tiny, matte-black collar around its little furry neck.

“How’d he do?” Ian whispered, glancing back over his shoulder to make sure Mickey couldn’t hear.

“Great! Whined a little in the car but…” Lip held the puppy out, handing him gently to Ian, who cradled him against his chest as if he were breakable, which, Ian supposed he was.

Mickey had been mentioning a dog since Hallowe'en – when they’d taken the kids to North Side for the good shit; every time he’d heard a dog bark inside a house at the sound of the doorbell, he would make an errant comment about it being a smart investment, _‘for safety’_.

It was an investment Ian had had no problem getting behind.

“He has no idea?” Lip asked, his voice low as he slung his scarf off and strolled inside, closing the door behind him.

“Nope.” Ian stepped back into the living room, everyone’s faces lighting up silently as they saw the puppy – Mickey’s grumpy face under Mandy’s perfectly manicured hands looking positively annoyed and beautiful.

“It’s too fuckin’ quiet,” Mickey grumbled, thumbing his nose. “I can’t see shit. If Iggy and Colin are here and about to do something, I’ll divorce you…”

“Oh shut up,” Ian snorted, petting absently at the dog’s head to keep it quiet. “Your brothers said they had shit to do, they’ll be here in an hour or so. And stop using divorce as a threat!”

“Yea yea, okay. Can we get this show on the road now!?”

“So fuckin’ romantic…” Debbie rolled her eyes, hoisting Franny a little higher in her arms to try and keep her from squirming to get to the newest addition to the Milkovich home.

Kneeling down onto the floor in front of his husband, Ian stayed far enough back that Mickey wouldn’t get the soft scent of puppy before it was time.

“Okay,” he sighed finally, turning the puppy a little and tucking their faces together so Mickey would get the best possible view. “Merry Christmas, Mick.”

Mandy let go of her brother’s face then, and Mickey squinted in the light, his eyes adjusting for a moment before his gaze landed on Ian expectantly. For just a second, his brows furrowed like he didn’t quite understand, until he _really_ looked, and saw the ball of fur in his husband’s arms.

Ian watched in amusement as Mickey’s face went slack and his mouth dropped open the smallest bit, inhaling a quiet breath that was almost too quiet to hear.

“So!?” Ian questioned, his heart suddenly squeezing in his chest when the smile he had been expecting didn’t appear on Mickey’s lips. “Whatta you think!?”

Mickey didn’t say anything, and it was dead silent for way too long; Ian actually started to go a little cold, before he noticed the lights from the tree glinting in the moisture of Mickey’s eyes – eyes that lifted then and held Ian’s gaze with such a sudden intensity that the smile on Ian’s face faded, and the heat within him rose.

“Really?” Mickey whispered finally, and Ian couldn’t quite believe how ridiculously surprised and vulnerable he sounded.

Something about it made his heart crack.

“Whatta you mean _really_?” Ian smiled, shuffling forward on his knees to place the dog into his daddy’s hands. “You wouldn’t shut up about it!”

“Dad never got us shit,” Mandy said suddenly – her sing-song voice breaking in over the Christmas music. Ian thought he saw tears in her eyes, too, before she stood up abruptly, grabbing her half-full glass from the table. “I need more wine!”

The Gallagher’s just watched her go, their faces pulling together a bit in confusion at the entire spectacle; but Ian just stared at Mickey, taking in the way he was suddenly so quiet, pressing his nose into the black fur that matched his own hair like he was about to fall apart completely, and all at once, Ian was pretty sure he understood.

“Hey, can you guys go set the table?” he said then, eyeing his siblings with a tone and a look that conveyed he wasn’t actually asking – he was telling.

“Yea,” Liam said first, slapping Carl’s thigh to grab his attention. “Let’s go, idiot.”

“Fine.”

Fiona winked at Ian when she stood then, guiding them all out of the room like she always did, Lip squeezing his brother’s shoulder absently in reassurance as he passed.

~

What the fuck was happening to him in the moment, Mickey didn’t really know; but his chest was tight, and his eyes were burning as he pressed his lips gently into the soft fur of the puppy in his arms – inhaling its subtle smell – and his heart was suddenly so fucking full that he was terrified it was going to explode on the spot and he’d never get a chance to live this life he still sometimes thought he didn’t deserve.

“Hey,” Ian said again, and Mickey didn’t think it was for the first time. “Mickey, look at me.”

Mickey raised his head at the words, his eyes finally meeting Ian’s, and the look within them was softer than the gift he held in his hands.

“Thank you,” Mickey sighed suddenly, the words escaping his mouth before he’d wanted them to, making them sound shaky and vulnerable.

Ian reached a hand out in the glow of the Christmas tree, flakes of snow falling quietly beyond the window. Mickey thought absently that it was like a world of their own there inside the house – like he and Ian were the central ornaments in a big, South Side snow globe.

“Are you okay?” Ian asked, and he was worried, Mickey could tell.

 _Rightly so_ , he thought; he was having an actual fucking moment in the middle of Christmas dinner, like some stupid movie on the Hallmark channel.

“Yea fuck, I’m fine,” Mickey admitted eventually, and despite the way it probably appeared, it was true.

It was the truest thing he knew.

“Then what’s wrong?” Ian trailed a finger along Mickey’s jaw before rubbing at one of the floppy ears between them, a smile pulling up his mouth that Mickey thought was stunning.

“I always wanted a dog,” Mickey confessed, eyeing the fur ball in his grasp, smiling at the way it looked up at him suddenly and licked his chin, like it already knew he needed it. “The only thing Terry ever gave me though was black eyes and that car...”

“Terry’s gone, Mick,” Ian cut in, his voice so firm he drew Mickey’s gaze once more. “He’s gone, and he’s never coming back.”

For some reason, those words coming from Ian’s mouth made the tightness in Mickey’s chest ease back a little – made the warmth of family return.

“It’s stupid and corny as fuck, Ian,” Mickey began then, and once the words started to tumble out, they apparently weren’t going to stop. “But you’re the only one that’s ever given me anything that _means_ something. Fuck, _everything_ you’ve ever given me means something, and that’s…fuck…I dunno. That’s…”

“I’ve only ever given you this fuckin’ dog, Mickey,” Ian snorted then, his face falling a little as if that would never be enough; but it was, it _really_ fucking was. “And I only had the money because you gave me…”

“Shut up,” Mickey hissed, his voice quiet but angry. “You’ve given me _everything_ , Ian, and…”

“ _I’ve_ given _you_ everything!?” Ian’s eyes went wide and almost accusing. “Mickey, you’ve given me a home, a family, security, a honeymoon, a future, my _life_!”

“You’ve given me all of those things, too, you fuckin’ moron!” Mickey yelled, but leaned forward despite the frustration, pressing their mouths together to just shut each other up for half-a-second before continuing. “Maybe I spent some money that I had here and there, but that doesn’t mean fuck all, Ian! You know that better than anyone. This place is a home because of you; this house is full of family because of you; I feel safe, too, because of you; I only had a honeymoon because I married you; I have a future I’m looking forward to because of you; and as for the life part, well, you’ve made mine worth living…”

The doorbell rang suddenly, tearing Mickey’s attention away for the split second it took for Ian to swoop in and pull his head back around, forcing Mickey’s mouth onto his own once more, and if it weren’t for the tiny, perfect weight of warmth falling asleep in his lap reminding him of Christmas and the people in the other room, Mickey probably would have torn Ian’s clothes off right then and there as his tongue flicked out against his own.

“I’ll get it!” Lip yelled, causing Mickey to panic slightly as he tried to pull back, but Ian was apparently refusing to let go, making Mickey laugh against his mouth as his massive, freckled hands kept their lips together.

“No no!” he tried to call out, smiling like an idiot against Ian’s face as Ian began to huff out snorts of laughter, _still_ refusing to let him go. “Ian!”

“What?” Ian mumbled, the word making Mickey’s cheeks fill with his air as their lips created a perfect seal.

“Seriously?”

Ian fell apart, his lips moving faster over Mickey’s as he laughed.

“Ian! It’s…Colin…he has….he has….fuck, Ian!”

“Okay okay!” Ian pulled away finally, a smile on his face so wide that Mickey thought maybe the snow outside would melt if it saw it. “Gimme Hubert and get the door.”

Mickey paused, his face sore from either grinning, or making out with his husband.

“Hubert!?”

“No?” Ian’s face was too goddamn happy.

“Abso-fucking-lutely not.”

Ian just shrugged, taking the puppy back into his arms so Mickey could stand.

“Stay here,” Mickey commanded, pressing one last kiss to Ian’s lips before pointing a tattoo finger at Lip. “And you, make sure he stays here and doesn’t look out the window until I’m back.”

“Yes sir.” Lip gave him a little salute as Fiona and Debbie hurried about the kitchen, the smell of turkey lingering in the air. “Hey you wanna help maybe?” Lip spat at Carl, who sat on his ass watching Mandy and Liam set the table.

Mickey smiled at the familiar bickering and turned, opening the door to the cold snow in his socked feet.

Colin was standing on the porch, a couple SUV’s parked at the curb in front of the massive moving truck Mickey had been expecting for weeks.

It took up the entirety of the street.

“It’s all there?” Mickey asked expectantly, smiling up at his brother who watched Iggy directing the drivers as they squeezed the truck between Mickey’s parked Audi and the opposite curb. "Careful!" he screamed, his hands itching at the closeness of the truck's bumper to his matte paint.

“Oh, it’s all there.” Colin smiled, rubbing his hands together in the falling snow to keep them warm.

The sun was just setting, but it didn’t matter; as soon as the back ramp unfolded outwards, it flooded with light from the truck bed, and Mickey felt his jaw tighten.

“Keep it in there until I get Ian.”

“Will do.”

Mickey burst his way back through the door, sliding his feet into his slippers before eyeing Ian and the dog.

“Come here,” he said, and knew his smile was massive.

Ian’s eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“What the fuck is it?”

“It’s ridiculous and I don’t fucking care, you’re gunna enjoy it.” Mickey held his finger out, curling it in a _come here_ motion. “Come on, big boy.”

“Jesus,” Lip huffed, stepping forward so he could take the puppy from his brother’s arms. “Go.”

“Alright, fuck.” Ian came forward, slipping into his shoes as the entire occupancy of the house came forward with him, standing just inside the door as Mickey opened it and ushered Ian out onto the porch.

“What’s in the fuckin’ giant truck, Mickey?” Ian smirked, but his eyes still looked suspicious as fuck, like he actually didn’t have a single clue what it was, which is exactly how Mickey wanted it.

“You ready?” Colin called up from the curb, and Mickey gave him the thumbs up, his heart hammering in his chest.

Colin banged his hand on the back bumper, and all they could hear then was the low rumble of an engine as it roared to life, and Mickey felt rather than saw Ian tense a bit beside him at the sound.

“Mick,” Ian started, eyes widening. “You did not get me a fuckin’…” but he stopped as Iggy pulled down off the ramp then, the sight so fucking glorious that Mickey almost jizzed in his pants for the second time in a week.

The Audi R8 was almost identical to Mickey’s except for two things: it was a slightly newer model, and the paint was a deep, burnt orange instead of black, the colour perfectly matching the shaded undertones of Ian’s hair.

That’s why Mickey had chosen it.

“Holy shit!” Carl hissed, stepping out onto the porch and throwing his hands up to Ian’s shoulders. “Can I drive it!?”

“No!” Lip and Fiona yelled at the same time, making the younger Gallagher roll his eyes in annoyance.

Despite the kerfuffle, Mickey didn’t take his eyes off of Ian; he just watched the way his mouth fell open a little as he stared, snow falling into his hair and melting away after a couple seconds of contact.

“Told you,” Mickey started, reaching out to slap the hardened muscles of Ian’s stomach. “It’s ridiculous but, you’ll need to get to school in the spring, then work eventually, and I can’t be driving your ass all over the place for the rest of time so…”

“It’s orange,” Ian said finally, interrupting Mickey for the millionth time that night as his gaze met his husbands, and the smile on his lips was pure amusement, which set Mickey’s teeth on edge.

“Yea, just like you.”

Despite the happiness on his face, Ian flipped him the bird.

“You takin’ her for a spin!?” Iggy yelled suddenly, hopping out of the driver’s seat before bounding across the sidewalk and up the stairs, holding the fob out to Ian.

Ian just glanced at it for a moment before finally reaching out to take it.

“So you wanna show me what you got, tough guy?” Mickey asked, raising a questioning eyebrow, and that smile on his husband’s face only lifted higher as his green eyes gazed up at the falling snow in the darkening sky, as if wondering just how stupid it would be to take this out on the roads in the dead of winter.

“I’m sure it’s safe,” Ian shrugged after a beat, and fuck, that right there is exactly why Mickey had fallen in love with him in the first place.

“We’ll drift the corners slow.” Mickey turned at once, nuzzling the puppy in Lip’s arms. “Daddy’ll be right back,” he whispered, causing Lip to call him a _soft pussy_ in his ear before Mickey shot him the finger and flew down the steps after his husband.

For once in his life, Mickey slid into the passenger seat; and for once in his life, it actually felt alright.

“Holy fuuuuck,” Ian sighed, his eyes scanning the black and orange custom interior when he was seated – a custom interior Mickey had designed himself.

Orange and black.

Fire and brimstone.

Ian and Mickey.

“You ready?” Mickey asked, watching the way Ian’s green eyes glanced towards him and held his gaze for a moment, then two, before Ian leaned forward and kissed him one final time, the thrill of him making Mickey feel more alive than he ever had.

Ian pulled back, revving the engine once he started it, and the snow continued to fall around them as the sky turned black, the danger of the slick roads and the speed only making their heartbeats quicken, and they lived for it, just as much as they lived for each other.

Absently, Ian lifted his left hand, placing it onto the wheel before his right shot out and took hold of Mickey’s.

“Let’s ride.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know for sure yet, but I do have an inkling that Mickey and Ian Milkovich will return at some point...
> 
> Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, Happy New Year, good health and happiness to you all!


End file.
